


A Hero For Any Other Day

by Pitry



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Infidelity, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-23
Updated: 2012-01-23
Packaged: 2017-10-30 01:03:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 25,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/326049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pitry/pseuds/Pitry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even Draco Malfoy needs a hero to save him sometimes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part 1 - Autumn, 1998

**Author's Note:**

> With enormous thanks to my wonderful beta, 13alias31. All mistakes are mine.

Draco Malfoy stood in front of the door to number 12, Grimmauld place and licked his lips nervously. He didn’t really know what he was doing in front of this particular door, on this particular September afternoon, but there he was. He had stood there for five minutes, trying to convince himself to knock on the door, ring the doorbell, or announce his presence to the owner of the house in any other way.

Actually, what he really tried to convince himself to do was to not turn around and flee.

He hadn’t realised he had been noticed during his long stay on the doorstep. As he sent his hand for the tenth time to the old knocker and before he even touched it - or had the chance to send his hand back - the door opened.

Draco’s hand froze in place, inches from where the knocker had been, now inches from the owner of the door. Harry Potter stood there in silence, studied him for a moment from the entrance, then nodded and turned back into the house, leaving the door open. Draco chose to see this as an invitation, and followed him.

The hallway was dark, and once the door had closed, it became even darker, with a hint of dampness. Draco started walking in - he could see Potter’s shock of jet black hair walking deeper into the corridor and into a room, which turned out to be the living room.

The curtains were open, lending a bit of light into the otherwise dark room. Of course, Draco thought, Potter could see him from here, he must have known for a while he’d been standing there, must have seen him drawing his hand fowards, then back, over and over again. But his eyes didn’t stay long on the window, and instead travelled to Potter, who was still studying him silently.

It was the first time Draco had seen Potter closely since the war, and the first time he had ever seen him wearing anything other than wizard’s robes. Potter was wearing a fading, short-sleeved, low-cut Muggle shirt that had once been blue and now was mostly an indistinct shade of grey. It wasn’t the shirt that drew Draco’s eyes, though, but those bits of Potter that were usually covered by the robes. It seemed the famous scar on his forehead was not the only one he had acquired throughout the years - on his arm there was something that looked like a puncture mark made by a huge snake; on the palm of the other hand, a remnant of Dolores Umbridge’s favourite method of punishment; and on his neck and going down under the shirt, a thin line that could have been a burn mark, or perhaps something that was left by a garrotte. Draco couldn’t tell whether all these were leftovers from the war, or memories from older adventures that he just never noticed. He thought that now, perhaps, it didn’t matter, but for some reason he was sure that it did.

He wondered for a moment what did Potter see when he looked at him. Draco didn’t wear his scars on his skin, like Potter did. All of his scarring of the past two years, he thought bitterly, he had done inside. Of course. What befell Blessed Potter was shown to the world, while Draco’s pain was invisible to all but his family. The old anger rose in him again. For a moment, he hoped Potter would open his mouth, say something so stupid and arrogant and _Potter-esque_ and he could shout back at him all his fury. He knew that would be counter-productive. He did not bother himself all the way to Potter’s doorstep to start a fight. Nonetheless, he wanted it, he knew it.

But Potter didn’t start an argument. He just stood there, studying Draco in silence, and just when Draco thought he couldn’t take the silence anymore, Potter turned back and fetched something out of a drawer.

“I thought you’d want it back,” he said quietly, and threw the thing at Draco. Draco caught it quickly, before his brain even registered what it was that Potter was giving him. And then he saw - ten inches, Hawthorn, and the core, he knew, a single unicorn’s hair. His old wand. It felt warm to the touch, friendly and inviting. His old wand had not abandoned him completely. He looked at Potter in surprise.

“I... uh...” he was lost for words for a moment. He never expected to see this wand again.

Potter looked at him in confusion. “If not for the wand, what did you come here for?” he asked.

Draco could feel his face flush. Now that Potter had asked, there was no backing down, no turning back. But he didn’t know how to say what he came to say. He didn’t really want to say it, he knew. “I, uh, well, what I came here for... I mean, my family... and me, I guess... I mean, what you said to the, uh, to the Wizengamot...” his voice trailed and disappeared. He could feel his face turning even more red than before. Potter just stood there, saying nothing, and Draco hated him just a little bit more for making him say those words. Anger and hatred rising in him, he didn’t finish the sentence he had come there to say.

After what seemed like eternity, Potter nodded at the unsaid words. “You’re welcome,” he said quietly.

They stared at each other for another moment or two.

“Sit down,” Potter said eventually. “I’ll get us some tea.”

Draco had no wish to sit down and drink tea with Harry Potter, but it didn’t look like he had a choice. Awkwardness had taken over for a moment, and his chance to say what he had come to say and leave had disappeared at some point between his stupid mumbling and the silence that engulfed them as a result. He should never have come here in the first place.

In no time, Potter returned to the room, balancing a couple of mugs in one hand while carrying milk in the other. The sugar and some chocolate biscuits followed him in the air.

“I really should be going...” Draco started getting up, hoping to be able to escape this unwelcome invitation, but Potter stared him down. After a moment in Potter’s gaze, he sat down again, his heart heavier than before, resentment rising in him again.

“Milk? Sugar?” Potter asked.

“No,” Draco said stiffly, trying to sound as uninviting as possible. What was Potter thinking? And why, something nagged inside Draco’s mind, did he even make the invitation in the first place?

Potter handed him the mug without another word. There was something cold and stiff in the way he handled things, Draco thought, but if Potter was going to be hostile towards him, it was his own fault for extending the invitation to Draco in the first place. So Draco took the mug from him and drank a little.

“This is horrible,” he said without thinking.

Potter just nudged the sugar in his direction. Draco opted for a chocolate biscuit instead.

“It really is horrible,” Potter wrinkled his nose at his own mug, and poured a generous amount of sugar into it.

“I don’t think sugar’s going to save it,” Draco said. Potter just shrugged and drank his tea. He didn’t say another word about it, but Draco could see from his expression that he did not enjoy the taste. Arrogant bastard, he thought angrily.

“So, what are you doing these days?” Potter asked a useless question. Draco should have seen it coming. He shrugged in response, even if it was no response at all.

Potter raised an eyebrow, his eyes examining Draco.

“I don’t know,” Draco said slowly, anything to make him turn his eyes somewhere else. “I talked to some people, but for some reason, they don’t seem interested in hiring a former Death Eater without any N.E.W.T.s.” He’d be damned if he told Potter how he had to almost beg to the last person, how he _had_ to find a job, what with the heavy compensation payments the Wizengamot had required his family to pay, and his parents downright refusing to leave the house, how they would soon be in real trouble, sooner than even his parents realised, and the repeated humiliation he had to endure because no one wanted to even hear him out before they turned him down.

“I can talk to some people for you,” Potter said quietly.

Draco flushed again, worse than before. “I don’t need your charity!” he spat at Potter, getting up on his feet, clenching the wand he got back only a few moments ago. Within seconds Potter was on his feet as well, his wand pointing at Draco. They stared at each other like that for a moment. Potter seemed to come to his senses first. He stowed his wand back in his pocket, and sat down again, eyeing Draco coldly.

Even in his unwanted charity, he was being arrogant, Draco thought bitterly. Harry Potter knew that Draco could not afford to curse him. He would be arrested again and hauled into Azkaban before he had even finished uttering the incantation. And the smug bastard knew this. Of course he could afford to lower his guard. Draco wasn’t even a threat anymore, was he? Not to _Blessed Potter_.

“I think I better leave,” he said stiffly.

“Yes,” Potter said quietly. “Sounds like a good idea.”

Draco turned his back on Potter and walked out of the house without another word. Only once he was outside, in the street, did he pause for a moment and look through the window back into the living room of number 12, Grimmauld Place. Potter was still sitting on the same sofa, slowly drinking his disgusting tea, staring at the empty air.

At night, instead of sleeping, Draco kept on replaying that conversation in his head, trying to figure out where it went wrong. By morning, he had decided to try again. Malfoys didn’t apologise, and they most certainly didn’t beg, but if he were honest with himself, he couldn’t afford being a proper Malfoy right now.

This time, he came to Grimmauld Place memorising the words he meant to say.

Potter didn’t see him from the window this time - or, if he did, he wasn’t in a hurry to let him in. He only came to the door after the third ring.

“What d’you want, Malfoy?” he asked when he saw Draco’s face.

Draco could feel himself flushing. How dare he talk to him like - no. There was nothing to be gained from thinking like that. Not anymore. “I think we started on the wrong foot yesterday,” he said carefully those words he had repeated to himself over and over again.

“I think we started on the wrong foot seven years ago,” Potter said shortly, annoyingly, and not according to the script. When Draco practiced this exchange at night, Potter said nothing at this point. He chose to ignore this comment and go on with his script.

“When I came to thank you yesterday,” he completed his sentence.

Potter raised an eyebrow. “I don’t remember you thanking me,” he said, his voice cold.

Draco bit back an angry retort. But he didn’t follow the script this time. “Yeah,” he agreed with Potter despite his better judgement. “That was part of what went wrong.”

Potter studied him for a moment longer, then shrugged. “Come in,” he said curtly. He didn’t walk into the house this time, but instead moved just enough to let Draco enter, then closed the door behind him. Draco went back to the same drawing room they had been in the day before. Potter followed, and once inside, threw himself on one of the sofas. There was no mention of either tea or biscuits this time round.

With a sigh, Draco sat down on a chair in front of Potter. Potter still said nothing, and Draco drew a big breath and said it quickly, quietly, willing it to be over with. “My family and I would have probably gone to Azkaban without your intervention. I wanted to thank you, in their name and mine.” He knew he sounded overly formal, like he was reading it from a page. In a way, he was - these were the words he had forced himself to repeat over and over again the night before, to make sure that this time they came out. He suspected he didn’t sound very sincere. All he had left to hope was that Potter would say ‘you’re welcome’ again, and then Draco could get up and leave, never to come back.

Potter, of course, the stupid bastard that he was, refused to follow the script dictated by Draco’s hope and common sense. “I didn’t do it for your family, Malfoy,” he said.

“Then why?” the question escaped Draco’s lips before he could stop it.

Potter’s eyes seemed to be fixed on Draco now. Draco wanted to avert his gaze, unwilling to be probed like that by anyone - let alone Potter - but for some reason, not looking into these freakishly green eyes seemed worse than letting him stare. So he shrugged, eased back on the chair, and returned the gaze, challenging Potter without words.

He expected Potter to smile, or to change the subject, or to kick him out. He expected awkward silence, or a failed attempt at a joke, or angry shouts. He got neither.

“He made you torture people,” Potter stated in a matter-of-fact tone, with no discernible pity, but no anger or hate, either. “You didn’t want to, did you? But he still made you do it.”

Draco hadn’t realised he stood up. He could only stare at Potter in surprise mingled with fury, and - and this he would never admit to a living soul - something that felt too much like fear. “How do you know?” he whispered.

Potter didn’t answer his question. “He thought he could make a better Death Eater out of you, didn’t he. You didn’t have it in you to kill Dumbledore, and he thought he could make you grow into the part by forcing you to torture others.” His voice sounded almost soft.

Draco sat down. He’d die before he allowed Potter to see him shaking, before he admitted the fear that still engulfed him when he remembered those days. “You had such accurate intelligence, no wonder we lost,” he said bitterly.

Immediately he knew he had said the wrong thing. Potter’s eyes narrowed, and what could have been fascination was now replaced with anger. “I was under the impression your family was on the losing side no matter what,” he said coldly.

“Yeah,” Draco admitted before he could stop himself. And then it all came out in a huge torrent of doubt and anger and bitterness and pain, all those things he never meant to tell anyone, least of all Harry Potter. “Thirty million Galleons. They want us to pay thirty million Galleons! We don’t have that kind of money, Potter! No one has that kind of money! You-Know-Who spent half our money on Merlin-knows-what and some of my mother’s money is in Bellatrix’s vault and they’ve already seized that and Mother seems to think that if she just stays inside for a bit everyone will forget and she could go back to going in and out of the Ministry with Father and they don’t understand what it’s like out there and no one will even listen to me, I can’t even get a job as a bloody shop assistant, I’ve stooped that low because no one will have me but they won’t have me either and I don’t know what to do!”

Potter gave him a confused look. He looked even more stupid than usual wearing that frown on his face. Idiot kid, that’s what he was. What did he know about life? What did he know about problems? Everyone was going out of their way to do anything they could for Harry Potter, what could he possibly know? Draco knew he should keep his mouth shut - and especially near Potter - but it felt good, too good, to be able to say it at last. “At least if the Dark Lord had won, no one would have expected us to pay the expenses of the entire war,” he finished bitterly, and didn’t care what Potter would say in response to these words.

“I’ll talk to Kingsley,” was Potter’s unexpected answer. “See if we can get you some more time before the payments are due. And we’ll see if we can get your mum’s money out of Bellatrix’s vault.”

Now Draco felt foolish. He didn’t want favours from Potter and his pals at the Ministry. “I didn’t come here to -”

“I know what you came here for,” Potter cut across him. “This isn’t charity, it’s common sense. There’s a lot of good people who have suffered and a lot of orphans who could benefit from your gold and it’s only sensible to make sure you can actually pay your fines. And you were released by the Wizengamot, so refusing to hire you is illegal,” he added flatly. “I’ll have a word with Kingsley about that as well.”

Potter was true to his word. A small Ministry wizard showed up in the Manor the very next day, and arranged for a debt settlement that gave them enough time to get organised and sell the house before things got tough again. Draco was surprised to realise he did not much care that he was forced to leave his childhood’s home, his parent’s Manor. The last two years seemed to be looming over him there. Everywhere he went, he saw those red eyes, that terrible smile, the snake-like face... he felt almost relieved when he found a small place for himself and his parents in London and they left Wiltshire and Malfoy Manor behind.

Potter had also kept his word about finding a job for Draco. Not long after the move to London, he had found himself being interviewed in the Ministry. The position was small, boring, and without a lot of chances for advancement. He would be a nobody, another clerk in an already-full department. It was not, as his father had said in indignation, a position worthy of a Malfoy. But it was all Draco was offered, and at the moment, the only position worthy of a Malfoy was accepting that he was in no position at all to turn it down.

There were some problems at first with his new colleagues, but even those soon stopped. Malfoy suspected Potter had had something to do with that, too, but it had remained a suspicion. He never got confirmation, especially not from Potter. He saw him, every once in a while, walking the corridors of the Ministry of Magic in the company of Shacklebolt or Weasley or some other higher-up Ministry wizard or witch, and whenever their paths had crossed, Potter would nod and go on his way, never stopping to say anything, even not a simple ‘hello’.

It was life, it was monotonous and hard and unrewarding, and Draco thought he had gotten used to it, until the night he was attacked.

He had been walking home after an unsuccessful venture into the Leaky Cauldron when he heard someone calling his name. “Malfoy!” he heard and turned around in confusion - who’d want to talk to him?

As it turned out, whoever it was didn’t want to talk to him after all. He was hit with the Cruciatus curse before he had had the chance to even look at his attackers, and the pain was so much that he thought he would die. He thought he was screaming, but he couldn’t even be sure of that, only the pain was real, a white hot pain that erased everything else, and he hoped to die, he hoped it would end, and there was something else as well, something calling to him, a darkness, telling him to let go, just let go, if he’d just let go it would all be alright and the pain would stop and it’d be so much easier and...

The pain must have stopped, because he wasn’t screaming anymore. He lay there with his eyes shut, his face on the muddy pavement, and it was so warm and comfortable and he could stay there forever. Someone was talking above him, and the voice sounded vaguely familiar, but it really didn’t matter. All that mattered was staying there, slowly falling into blessed sleep...

“Malfoy!” someone shouted and slapped his face. Draco didn’t mind. He was a bit annoyed because the comfortable sleep was now further away, but he thought if he could just stay there a little longer it’d be alright. “Malfoy!” the voice shouted again. Ignoring it was easy.

He didn’t quite remember being hauled up. Maybe he fell asleep. He must have been hauled up because he could feel himself now standing upright, leaning over something - someone, perhaps, he mused as he heard a groan from somewhere beneath him. That was alright, too, he supposed, although why wouldn’t they let him just fall asleep he couldn’t understand.

The voice was talking again. He thought he heard him say, “Malfoy - wake up - listen to me - wake up!” He thought he’d tell them to stop bothering him and go away, but the thought left his mind as soon as it entered it, and he just stayed there, trying to fall back into oblivion. The next thing he knew, the person beneath him had turned on the spot and he felt as if he’d been shoved into a too-small compartment, and then he knew no more

He woke up. There was pain everywhere, but he was lying on something soft and someone pushed something into his hand. “Drink,” he heard a voice. He tried to crack open an eye, to sit up, but a firm hand shoved him back down. “Drink,” the woman said again. He shrugged and drank, trying to look at her. She wore a Healer’s robe. He must be in St Mungo’s, he mused. He tried looking around the room for a moment, and just as his eyes closed, he thought he might have seen a mess of black hair.

When he next woke up, he had to blink a couple of times before he could keep his eyes open. The room was flooded by brilliant light, and once he got his bearings, he could see that the sun was coming in through the window. It must have been shortly after noon. Another look around confirmed that he was in St Mungo’s, and definitely alone. He sat up and thought of getting out of the bed, but his legs felt like lead, heavy and unmoving.

“Hello?” he called to the room in general. The door opened, an unfamiliar face popped in, and the door closed again. Well, he thought angrily, if that’s how things were going to be... he tried to move his legs again, but to no avail. Not to be deterred by that little snag, he tried pulling his legs, forcing them down. That seemed to work and, encouraged, he tried to stand up.

He managed to grab hold of the bed just before his face hit the ground. He knew he would not be able to pull himself up completely, not as long as his legs refused to cooperate. He had to try, though. Any moment now, someone could come through that door - no, not _someone_ , he had to admit to himself. _Potter_. Potter might come through that door and he just wouldn’t be able to take it.

“What are you doing?” a voice asked at that exact moment, and Draco felt himself flushing, although relieved - it was not Potter’s voice.

“Trying to pull myself back to the bed,” he snapped at the Healer.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she snapped back at him, and waved her wand. He was lifted up the air, and sent back into the bed.

“What happened?” he asked her.

She shrugged. “You got hit with a curse. Here, drink this,” she shoved a goblet into his hand. The potion inside was revolting puce.

“I got hit with the _Cruciatus_ curse,” he pointed out.

She shrugged again. She was quickly getting on his nerves. “You got hit with something else, too,” she said. “And you were lucky Harry was around, or you’d be dead now. And not from the Cruciatus curse.”

“So it _was_ Potter who brought me here? Where is he now?”

“Working, I imagine,” she said, completely indifferent. “Drink your potion.”

He thought of telling her off, or refusing to drink the bloody thing, but decided against it. She could probably force it down his throat, and besides, the damage to his pride was not even remotely close to the damage to his legs. He drank the potion and noted that its taste was even more revolting than its colour. She took the goblet and was gone.

The next three days continued with the same routine. He had no visitors - no one, not even his parents, had come to St Mungo’s to ease his boredom, give him news, or just provide entertainment. The Healer walked in to give him his meals and his potion and replace the bandage on the nasty wound he had procured, but she never stayed too long, and was always cold and unhappy. His dreams were haunted by faceless men who ambushed him in the dark. He assumed it was a measure of progress from his usual nightmares, that included red, snake-like eyes, but he could hardly call it a huge improvement. The only improvement he had, in fact, was that his legs were getting better. By the third day, he could already stand, and was frustrated to find out he was not being discharged yet. “But I’m fine now,” he argued with the Healer when she entered his room to give him the potion and change the dressing of the wound on his chest. “Look!” To make his point, he jumped out of the bed.

“Stop being childish and get back in bed,” she snapped at him, gave him another gobletful of the revolting potion, and was gone. He went back to bed. There was no point not going back.

The door opened again. Draco assumed that it was the Healer, who must have forgotten something and opened his mouth to start another argument, but then closed it again in surprise. It wasn’t the Healer - it was Potter.

Potter studied him for a moment from the door, then closed it behind him and stepped into the room. “How are you doing?” he asked.

“Fine,” Draco snapped. Just what he needed. Potter, deciding to come and pay him a visit. Probably to remind him he had played the hero once again. There may have been a part of him, hidden deep inside, that was pleased to see Potter, but he refused to admit that part had existed, even to himself.

“Take off your shirt,” Potter said.

Draco stared at him for a moment. “Beg your pardon?” he managed eventually.

“I need to check something. With your wound. Please, take off your shirt,” Potter repeated.

He stared at Potter for a moment longer and then, reluctantly, started removing the upper part of the hospital gown. He saw Potter’s eyes flicker for a moment, and it took him a second to understand what had attracted his eyes. He had removed just enough of the gown to expose the old scars, the scars Potter had given him a couple of years ago in a bathroom at Hogwarts. And all of a sudden, he wasn’t so reluctant to remove the hospital gown. That’s right, Potter, he thought angrily as he exposed more of the long, thin lines that were etched into his flesh, take a good look at your handiwork, at that time you almost killed me.

If Potter had considered bringing it up, though, he must have thought better of it. When next Draco looked again at Potter, he was looking back at him impassively. Then he walked straight to Draco’s bed and seated himself on the covers. He took out his wand and aimed it at the bandage on his chest, muttering all the while some unknown spell. It went on like that for a minute or two, and then, with surprising speed, Potter grabbed Draco’s left arm, and directed his wand at it. Draco started pulling back his hand, but Potter’s grip on it was like iron. His wand was an inch from where the Dark Mark could once be seen on the skin, when he stopped and started muttering the spell again. It couldn’t be a coincidence that he was examining his Dark Mark, and yet, Draco didn’t ask what he was doing with it, or why. He didn’t really want to know.

Finally, Potter was satisfied. He let go of his arm and got up. “You can get dressed now,” he told Draco.

“What was it you just did?” Draco demanded, but Potter ignored him.

“I was told by the Healer you’re being released today,” he said instead. “You’re probably going to get a couple more sick days... but drop into my office when you’re back, I’ll need to take a statement.”

Draco was so angry that Potter had known his own release date before he did, that he didn’t even manage to think of a proper retort. By the time he opened his mouth to speak, Potter had already left.

Draco was indeed released from the hospital that very day, as the Healer decided he didn’t need any more disgusting puce potion, and that he could do the rest of his recovery at home. She even added a couple of restrained comments about how much he must have been looking forward to going back there. He couldn’t tell her how wrong she was. Oh, he knew why his parents did not come to visit him at the hospital, of course, and didn’t begrudge them their decision - his parents didn’t leave the small flat unless they had to these days. They seemed almost afraid to go back to the wizarding society. But even without that argument, living with them was almost as depressing as living at the same house with the Dark Lord the year before. They were quiet, and withdrawn, and most of their words were about how terrible their living conditions were these days, and how they did not deserve that treatment. The only thing Draco was sure of was that as soon as he had enough money, he would find a place of his own, even if it meant paying rent on two different flats. He loved his parents, but living with them had become a slow torture.

It wasn’t much of a surprise, then, that come Monday, he showed up at work as usual. He had been given three more sick days, but between going to work and staying at home with his parents, he decided the Ministry was the lesser evil. He didn’t go to Potter’s office, though. In fact, he did his best to avoid Potter completely - he hardly left his office, even for lunch, and at the end of each day he left immediately to the small flat. None of his colleagues seemed to notice. He was surprised to see how easily he fell back to routine.

But routine eluded him. After about a week of hiding in his office, a small memo zoomed into his office and landed on his desk. He opened it completely before he recognised the disorganised, slightly childish handwriting - Potter’s.

 _Malfoy, still need to take that statement. Drop by my desk before you leave work today please. - Harry_.

Well, so much for avoiding Potter. Draco knew that memos had a way of registering whether they’d been read or not. Potter would know he got the memo, and if he didn’t show up, it would probably be brought up with his supervisor, and really, it would be less painful to just enter the damn office and be done with it. He would have felt annoyed, if it weren’t for the feeling like lead in his stomach. More than anything else, he was dreading this encounter. He wasn’t quite sure why he was dreading it, but he sure had plenty of reasons to pick from - being stuck alone in an office with Potter, Potter bringing up that he had saved Draco’s life yet again, or worse - that he would act again as if it was no big deal...

But come six o’clock, he sighed, tidied up his desk, and went up to where the Aurors sat, all the way to Potter’s desk.

It was the first time he’d been up there, the first time he saw Potter where he worked. There were various photographs on the cubicle’s walls - Potter with Weasley and Granger; the entire Weasley family; a picture of a man and a woman, the man looking so much like Potter that he supposed it must be his father; a picture of someone Draco recognised vaguely as Sirius Black together with their old werewolf teacher, Lupin... Other than the pictures, there was nothing on the walls. No wanted posters, nothing on his current projects.

Potter himself was sitting next to his desk, scribbling on a piece of parchment, and didn’t seem aware that Draco had arrived.

“Potter,” Draco said to alert him. Potter jumped, and then turned around quickly.

“Damn it, Malfoy, you scared the hell out of me,” he said.

“Well, you’re the one who told me to get here now, I could go and come back - “

“No, no, sit down,” he gestured in front of him. There was no chair there. “Erm,” he said and went to find a chair from a near-by cubicle. Draco sat without a word. Potter took out a second piece of parchment and looked at it thoughtfully.

“So, did you see who attacked you?” he asked.

“What? No. You think I wouldn’t have said who it was?” Draco was already angry, and it had only been the first question.

“Right. So you were walking down the street - “

“ - And someone called my name, I turned around, and got hit with the Cruciatus curse. Next thing I remember I was in St Mungo’s.”

“What were you doing there?”

“At St. Mungo’s? Getting better, I hope.”

“No, you prat - “ Potter stopped mid-sentence. “Sorry,” he said. “I meant to ask, what were you doing on that street.”

“Going home.”

“Where from?”

“The Leaky Cauldron. I’m still allowed there, aren’t I?” he asked sarcastically, and Potter promptly ignored him.

“So, you were in the Leaky Cauldron, decided to go home, started walking, heard someone call your name, got hit with the Cruciatus curse and you don’t remember anything else?” Potter summed it up, writing on the parchment.

Draco didn’t bother answering. What a tedious, ridiculous waste of his time.

“Alright, I’m going to need your signature here,” Potter pushed the parchment towards Draco, who scribbled his signature on it and pushed it back.

“Is that all?” he started getting up, and was startled to hear Potter saying, “Not quite.” Draco sat down again, feeling even more resentful than before.

Potter seemed to be studying him again. “D’you have any Muggle clothes?” he asked abruptly.

“Any - what’s going on, Potter?”

“Do you have any Muggle clothes?”

“No, I very well _don’t_ have any Muggle clothes. I’m a wizard working in the Ministry, I wasn’t aware we needed Muggle clothing here,” he said scathingly.

Potter, once again, ignored his tone of voice. “Well, you’re going to need them where we’re going,” he said lightly, “because showing up in Ministry robes would constitute a violation of the Statute of Secrecy and that sort of thing is frowned upon here at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Erm, can you Transfigure your robes or something?”

Draco gave Potter what he hoped was his most contemptuous look and aimed his wand at his robes. They turned into one of those nice, fashionable suits he had seen Muggles wear in London’s financial district. With a final flick of his wand, the suit turned grey. “Satisfied?” he asked Potter, who shrugged and took off his robes to reveal jeans and a t-shirt underneath. Typical.

“C’mon,” Potter said, and led the way out. Draco was in half a mind not to follow him, but it was, once again, more trouble than it was worth. And he had to admit to himself that he was getting curious. What was Potter trying to do? He definitely wasn’t taking Draco back to the scene of the crime, or whatever it was they called these things. That had been inside Diagon Alley, and they would not need Muggle clothing there.

No; Potter led him deep into Muggle London. They walked up Piccadilly in silence for a few minutes, until Potter led him to one alley, then another, and the number of people around them dwindled and Draco was starting to get worried - where _was_ he being led by Potter?

Just a pub, it turned out, a Muggle pub somewhere in a side alley next to Soho Square. Not too loud, not too full, but still just dark and cosy enough so they could talk without being heard.

“What are you having?” Potter asked as soon as they found a table somewhere inside the pub.

“What?”

“I don’t s’pose you have any Muggle money, so this one’s on me. What are you having?”

“Erm, beer?”

“Alright,” Potter said, and disappeared towards the bar. He returned a moment later with two big glasses full of amber liquid and some nuts. Draco started drinking his beer, waiting for Potter to say whatever it was that was on his mind.

“We know who attacked you,” Potter said all of a sudden. Draco spluttered into his beer.

“You know - so what was that - have you _arrested_ \- what did I need to give that bloody statement for?” he demanded.

“Well,” Potter said carefully, “for one thing, I wanted to know whether you realised who it was or not.”

“Who was it?” Draco repeated.

“Yaxley,” Potter said shortly.

“Yaxley? But why would he - “ Draco understood before he ended the sentence, but Potter explained anyway - perhaps he was so proud of himself for having figured it out, Draco thought darkly.

“You didn’t end up in prison, neither did your family. And it’s common knowledge that I spoke in your favour, even if most people don’t know what I said. We’re thinking that after the reveal about Snape...” Potter hesitated for a moment, then started again, “We’re thinking they’re thinking you were also a spy. Yaxley has been pretty busy lately. Trying to gather up followers. He’s thinking he can replace Voldemort. Apparently. Been giving us a bit of a headache lately.”

“There was nothing about this in the Prophet,” Draco pointed out.

“Yeah, we’re trying to keep a lid on things. Best not tell the world there’s still some Death Eaters out there trying to continue Voldemort’s work. People might start to panic. And they’re really a bit incompetent, so other than the random attack here and there, not a lot of damage has been done. Yaxley doesn’t know half as much as he thinks he knows,” Potter ended in a dark tone. “We’re still doing our best to catch him - “ he added quickly, probably at the sight of Draco’s expression - “we’re not taking this lightly. But the general public doesn’t seem to be in too much of a danger yet, so there’s no point warning everyone and causing more panic.”

“No, it’s just people like me who are in danger,” Draco said, putting into that sentence as much of his bitterness as he could muster. Typical. He lived the last two years of his life in mortal fear of the Dark Lord, doing anything that was asked of him until the very end - and in the end his Dad’s old friends were after him because they thought he betrayed them. Just typical.

“Yeah,” said Potter, looking for the first time uncomfortable. “That’s our bad. We didn’t think they’d go after you, we thought they’d concentrate on other people first... we’re still not sure whether they were planning it or maybe they just randomly saw you and decided to attack you on the spot.”

“Wait, wait, wait.” Something unpleasant was just dawning on Draco. “They could still be after me. I need protection!” he added, starting to panic.

“You’ve had protection ever since you arrived at St Mungo’s,” Potter said. “There’s always someone from the Auror office nearby.”

“I haven’t seen anyone!”

Potter raised an eyebrow. “We’re not _completely_ incompetent, you know,” he said dryly. “You haven’t seen anyone because we’re trying not to be seen. The truth is that you’re... sort of bait.”

Draco stared at Potter, speechless. Bait?!

“Kingsley didn’t want me to tell you. I thought differently.”

“And you get to do whatever you want,” Draco couldn’t quite stop himself from saying this.

“The one perk of being me, I guess, is that people actually listen to what I say,” Potter agreed. “I thought we should warn you. For one thing, I’m not convinced they’re not targeting your family.”

Draco jumped up, shocked. His mother, his father, they could all be in danger, right now, “We need to get going then! We need some protection! We need - “

“Sit down,” Potter hissed. “We’re going to go there from here.”

But Draco refused to sit down. “Why not now?” he demanded. “It’s my _family_ , Potter!”

Potter looked as if he wanted to say something as well, but then a moment passed and he seemed to change his mind. “Fine,” he said, and got up as well. “Let’s go, then.”

Draco couldn’t get there fast enough. The flat, all of a sudden, seemed so far, and he cursed Potter for taking them into a Muggle pub, and one so far from Diagon Alley. The ten minutes that it had taken him to walk the street, climb the stairs and enter the small, shabby flat seemed more like a hundred. Only at the door he hesitated. Potter was there - right behind him. Should he let him in without warning his parents first?

Potter, it seemed, didn’t think about that at all. Without waiting for Draco to go in himself, without another word, he opened the door and strolled into the flat as if he owned the place. Draco soon followed.

“Draco!” he could hear his mother. “You’re late, where have you - ” she stopped mid-sentence, frozen, staring at the unexpected intruder. Draco closed the door behind him, saying nothing. He knew he would have to explain later. He didn’t want to explain while Potter was in the room.

Potter, for his part, did not greet Draco’s mother in any way. In fact, he acted as if she did not exist. “How many windows are there in here?” he asked Draco.

“What?”

“Windows, Malfoy, windows. I’d rather start with the obvious ways people could get in.”

“Oh - right. Well, there’s the bedroom, and my parents’ bedroom, the living room, the kitchen, so four - no, five. The bathroom also has a window.”

“Lead the way,” Potter said, and Draco started showing him the various rooms in the house. Next to each window, Potter drew his wand, performed some complicated charm, and continued on to the next one.

It all seemed to be in order until they entered the living room, where Draco’s father sat. He was in his favourite armchair, reading the _Daily Prophet_ , and did not seem aware that they had a guest in the house, not until they entered. Lucius Malfoy folded his newspaper, undoubtedly ready to greet his son, and then his face turned white.

At that moment, Draco stole a glance at Potter, and was startled. He had known Potter for seven years, seven bitter years, in which they had shared nothing but hatred for each other. He had seen hatred on Potter’s face more often than not when he was looking at him, hatred and anger and resentment. But, as it turned out, it was nothing, nothing at all, compared to the loathing Potter had apparently reserved for his father. His face was almost frightening as he stared at Draco’s father. Draco could see Potter’s knuckles whiten as he grasped his wand tightly.

“What’s he doing here?” Father asked, in a hoarse whisper that was so unlike him.

“I’m helping protect your house,” Potter spat. “And don’t worry; I’m not doing it out of concern for your worthless life. As far as I’m concerned, your old pals can come and do you in any time, they’d do us a favour. But the Ministry kinda disapproves, so here I am.”

Draco’s father got up and joined his mother in the kitchen, eyeing Potter wearily. Potter ignored them both - he continued casting his charms and protective spells without another word, without even acknowledging that Lucius and Narcissa were still there. After five minutes of awkward silence and muttered spells, he turned to Draco.

“That’s it, then,” he said. “You should be alright here now. I’ll see you at work,” and left. Draco remained inside the house, burdened with having to explain it all to his parents, and for some odd reason, all he wanted to do was go out after Potter and shout at him some more.

To everyone’s surprise, and to Draco’s most of all, he ended up seeing a lot more of Potter in the next few weeks. He suspected that Potter felt guilty over the role the Ministry had designated Draco in their little operation - that of bait. Or perhaps, despite his words, he _was_ worried that their defences might not be enough. Whatever it was, Draco found himself surprisingly often in the Leaky Cauldron or at some Muggle pub around London, drinking beer in the company of Harry Potter.

It wasn’t always pleasant. Potter was quick to point out that if he didn’t drink with him, Draco often drank alone, or else went home to sit in the small shabby flat with his parents. “What happened to your friends?” he asked one night. “You know, Parkinson, Zabini, that lot...”

Draco noted how he didn’t mention Goyle - probably in order not to mention Crabbe. But Draco wasn’t going to mention Crabbe himself, so for once, he didn’t mind. What he did mind was Potter’s question. And the prospect of answering it.

“They have other things on their minds,” he answered shortly, wishing Potter would get the hint and change the subject.

Of course he didn’t. For a moment there, Draco had forgotten - this _was_ Potter, after all, with his eternal need to stick his nose in other people’s business, especially where neither he nor his nose were welcome. “C’mon,” he insisted, “you guys were always together at school. What happened?”

“What happened,” Draco said pointedly, already feeling himself flushing, “is that once the Dark Lord was defeated they realised that it just might hurt their future prospects to be hanging around with former Death Eaters.”

“Oh,” Potter had the decency to look abashed.

And then Draco found himself spilling all of his frustrations in front of Potter - again. Partially, he knew, it really was because of his friends. These days, he had no one to talk to. No one who would even listen, as Pansy and Blaise and the rest of them refused to have anything to do with him. His parents were too deep into their own troubles, with Narcissa having finally decided to come back out into the world and had the cold reception of reality hit her in the face. Since then, their family dinners became much more the arena of his mother’s indignation than a place where Draco could explain his own. That, too, he found himself telling Potter. One drunken night, he told Potter of his nightmares, of the way the Dark Lord still haunted his dreams, and of some things he suspected Potter knew, things he wished were nightmares, because that would have meant he never had to see them or do them.

The biggest surprise was that Potter actually listened. He didn’t mock Draco, or criticise him. He didn’t judge him when he heard of the things Draco had been forced to do. Not once did he say what Draco dreaded him saying, that there were people out there with much bigger troubles than Draco and his family, that there were people who suffered worse, that it was all their own fault.

It felt almost like friendship, in a way.

It wasn’t, of course. They were bitter rivals and Draco was never going to forget that. And he was quite certain he didn’t want Potter’s friendship. He wasn’t nearly as certain what it was he did want of Potter, for there was definitely something he was getting from these meetings and a reason he kept coming back, but friendship wasn’t one of them.

He was thinking of friendship when he pointed out, one Thursday, that it had been the third day in a row they’d gone out together, and that Potter was seeing more of him than he did Weasley and Granger. “Careful, now, Potter,” he teased Potter with a smile, “I might start thinking you like me better.”

“That’s right, Malfoy,” Potter responded in kind, “all your petty insults and self-centred complaints, that’s what I look forwards to every day.”

Draco laughed. A few years ago he would have probably taken that sentence as an insult - hell, a few weeks ago, too. But that was just Potter, wasn’t it? They couldn’t stop themselves from insulting each other. It was all a part of the game.

“So how come you’re spending more time with me than with your friends?” he asked.

“Look, I volunteered to keep an eye on you ‘cause no one else would,” Potter answered, and the hint of laughter was gone from his voice. “I see plenty of my friends, thanks. I don’t need you to worry about me.”

“What about you and the Weasley girl?” Draco pushed on, intentionally oblivious to Potter’s changed attitude. For one reckless moment, he wanted to see how far he could push Potter.

To his surprise, Potter’s face darkened and he stared into his beer wordlessly. “What?” Draco laughed, happy at the opportunity to finally get one back at Potter. “Trouble in paradise?”

Potter flushed. “We split up,” he said.

“Why?” He wasn’t mocking Potter anymore. Now, Draco was genuinely curious.

It still was the wrong question to ask. Draco had finally gone too far. Potter got on his feet and threw him a contemptuous look. “My private life’s none of your business, Malfoy,” he said coldly and left the pub. Draco was left to stare into his beer, feeling resentful.

He thought of going back to Potter, shouting at him for his attitude, but when he tried to come up with something to say, he was left with nothing. This was _not_ a friendship between them. He knew that. He opened up to Potter because he had no one else to talk to, and because, for some reason, talking to Potter actually made sense. But it was never a two-way street. Potter never gave the smallest inclination that he wanted to share things with Draco, that he wanted to make this some sort of a friendship, something on more even footing. It was Draco’s own fault for assuming that. And still, he felt resentment. The next few days, he stayed in his cubicle, went home early, and tried to avoid Potter as best as he could. Somewhere deep inside, he thought it was better to go before Potter had the chance to come and suggest they go out for a drink. That way, if Potter never came, Draco had no way of knowing.

But Potter did come back a couple of days later, showed up near Draco’s desk just before he finished his day and dragged him to some Muggle pub near Hyde Park as if nothing happened. Draco knew better than to bring up the topic of his friends or ex-girlfriends again, but silently, he kept an eye on Potter. It turned out he _was_ spending a lot less time with the jumped-up Mudblood and the Weasley oaf. For a while, Draco conducted a small experiment of his own: whenever Potter did not come to drag him into one of his pub crawls, he left work directly to visit Grimmauld Place. Potter was always alone at those times, always quick to let Draco in. One week they had even gone out every single night together, drinking at different pubs and throwing insulting comments at each other, and not once did Potter say he couldn’t come, that he had to meet his friends, or do something with his horde of admirers.

The only hint Draco had ever got was a throwaway comment by Potter, one night after they discussed the war - or rather, Draco had discussed the war while Potter listened quietly. Draco had mentioned then how everyone saw a saviour in Potter. “I’d rather they just looked at me and saw me,” Potter said quietly, and immediately changed the subject.

Draco thought he was the only one who kept track of Potter’s schedule, but other people were noticing the results of his little experiment as well. It was over dinner the week after that that his father said, all of a sudden, “You’re spending an awful lot of time with Potter, Draco.”

“Well, he’s all the rage these days, isn’t he?” Draco pointed out. “Besides, it’s not like I have anyone else to hang out with.” Which was, of course, completely true.

What he didn’t tell his parents was that it wasn’t just his days that had an excess of Potter in them now. The green eyes had taken the place of the red ones in haunting his dreams. Personally, he was not complaining. He didn’t much care for the alternative. For the first time since the war - since even before the war, really - he was sleeping well. He didn’t feel as tired all the time, didn’t feel as cranky. He was feeling more comfortable at work, too - none of the people at the office became his friends, but most of the glaring and whispering had stopped, at least in his presence, and people didn’t bother putting on their most hostile voice when they interacted with him.

  


**-X-**  


It was late, but Draco stayed at his desk, waiting for Potter to show up and drag him out as usual. He had done so every single day in the past couple of weeks. Draco didn’t even consider the possibility he wouldn’t show up, but when he took a peek at his watch and discovered that it was already 7:15 and no Potter in the horizon, he packed up his things and went to Potter’s desk.

The Aurors’ desks were all abandoned. Potter’s as well - the only movement was that of the people in the photographs, laughing and jumping and doing whatever it was they did. Draco gave a fleeting glance to the one of Potter’s school friends - they must have been 14 there, he reckoned, just the three of them, laughing around in what looked like Weasley’s family home.

He shrugged and went home. After all, Potter never said he’d come every evening. It’s not like they had an arrangement or something. Really, he didn’t have a right to expect that Potter would come _all the time_ , of course he had better things to do, they didn’t even like each other, they weren’t friends or anything... he kicked around angrily all the way back home, feeling dejected and angry and disappointed.

Draco was relieved when his parents retired to bed early, and stayed in the living room, staring at his book. He knew he was in too bad a mood to fall asleep if he went to bed himself. He wasn’t in a state to read the book, either - no, instead of progressing, he kept on staring at the same paragraph over and over again.

It was almost as if he waited for that knock on the door around midnight, although it had surprised him when he did hear it. Confused, he stared at the door for a moment. There it was again - not as much of a knock as a bang, really. He jumped to open it.

It was Potter. He was his usual mess, from the shock of black hair to the robes, torn and muddy - honestly, he knew the man had no sense of style, but he must have heard of washing machines! - this time accompanied by red eyes and the unmistakeable smell of alcohol. Potter was _drunk_.

“Did you know,” he demanded, “that they close down pubs in this bloody city at eleven?”

“Yes, Potter. It’s so that idiots like you don’t get too drunk.”

Potter seemed to have taken this as an invitation to walk in. He staggered inside and threw himself on Draco’s former armchair. “Well, it’s too early. D’you have anything to drink here?”

“No. Shouldn’t you go home or - ”

Potter wasn’t even listening. He got up from the armchair, walked straight into the kitchen, and started rummaging the various cupboards.

“Nothing? Not even some expensive elf wine, or firewhiskey? Anything? Don’t tell me you sold the wine cellar together with the Manor.”

Draco could feel his temper rising. Just what he needed, to be reminded of their fall from grace by a drunk Potter. “As a matter of fact, we did.” He closed the cupboard shut, not trying to avoid Potter’s fingers. Potter, as it turned out, wasn’t as drunk as he appeared to be at first glance. He withdrew his fingers just in time, shot Draco a filthy look, and went on to another cupboard.

“Not even Butterbeer?!” He sounded disappointed.

“Look, Potter, you’re going to wake up my parents, and - “

“Muffliato,” Potter aimed his wand at the bedroom, and went back to rummaging through the kitchen like a rampaging hippogriff.

“Would - you - stop - that?!” Draco grabbed him. “I’ve got pumpkin juice. That’s all I have.”

“Ah, well,” Potter sighed. “Pumpkin juice it is, then.”

More to stop him from completely destroying the kitchen than anything else, Draco pulled out the bottle of pumpkin juice and poured a glass. He had hoped that perhaps the pumpkin juice would calm Potter down - and return him to sobriety - but Potter didn’t seem to have any such plans. The second he laid his hands on the glass, he tapped his wand to it, muttering something. The orange drink turned electric blue.

“Er... what did you do?”

“Turned it into _alcoholic_ pumpkin juice!” Potter sounded much too pleased with himself. This, Draco surmised, could only end badly, and indeed - the pleased smile was erased from Potter’s face a moment later, when he spat his mouthful of blue pumpkin juice all over the counter.

“Not the taste you were looking for?” Draco raised an eyebrow.

“Tastes like floor wax,” Potter lamented.

“That’ll teach you.” Draco leaned on the counter - far away from the poorly Transfigured juice - and stared at Potter with crossed arms. Potter stared back at him, a curious look on his face, something that Draco wasn’t quite able to place. He waited and waited, but Potter said nothing, just looked at him. Draco, then, was the first to give up. “Why are you here?” he asked.

Potter stood up as well and walked the distance between them in three steps. “Why not?” he asked back, his face uncomfortably close to Draco’s.

“Because you have _friends_ , Potter, you know, the kind of people who actually give a damn when you’re having a breakdown and need to show up drunk on other people’s doorstep in the middle of the night.” He knew he was letting some of his anger and resentment from earlier show, but he didn’t much care.

“You have a point,” Potter said and his voice sounded surprisingly hoarse. “But there’s one thing I can’t do with my friends.”

Draco was in the middle of saying “Oh?” when Potter kissed him. He tasted of whiskey and floor wax and something that might have been blood and Draco discovered he was returning the kiss before he even had the chance to think about it. He was even more surprised to discover he enjoyed it. Then Potter let go, stumbled a step back, with an almost comical expression of confusion on his face.

“Oh, to hell with it,” said Draco and grabbed Potter for another kiss.

  


**-X-**  


He didn’t open his eyes when he woke up. The room was flooded with soft light, and he could feel a cool breeze on his face. If he kept his eyes shut for another moment, he thought he could stay in the state of near-sleep for just a little longer, and with it, keep the feeling of utter content that engulfed him. He wasn’t quite sure why, all he knew was that he felt happier than he had in a long time, definitely happier than he did when waking up. He must have had a wonderful dream last night - last night - when...

Potter’s lips on his, Potter’s fingers exploring him, the two of them stumbling into the bedroom, it all came back to him in a rush. Maybe that was what he wanted from Potter all that time, he thought, a satisfied smirk coming to his lips. Well, whether it was or not, it seemed like he was about to get it.

He stretched a hand to the other side of the bed, ready to wake up the lazy git, and his hands met nothing but the mattress. Draco’s eyes flew open, and he looked to his side. The bed was cold and empty. Someone did sleep there, it hadn’t been a dream - the blankets were tousled, the sheets all mangled. But Potter, it was obvious, had left a long time ago. Perhaps an hour or two ago, perhaps immediately after Draco had fallen asleep.

Never mind that, Draco thought and jumped out of his bed. Potter must have left early because he didn’t want to run into Draco’s parents - and really, Draco couldn’t fault him. The idea of Harry Potter coming out of his room at morning to see his parents was... well, it was something so horrible that it didn’t even stand thinking about. No, Potter did the right thing. Draco would see him at work and, with any luck, they would go to Grimmauld Place tonight and repeat last night’s performance. With much gusto.

He was impatient and distracted all through the morning, and by the time his lunch hour arrived, he did what he had never done before, and went to seek out Potter in the Auror office. Heads turned when Draco showed up there, looking for the messy black hair, but to his great disappointment, Potter wasn’t there. Maybe he went to grab an early lunch with someone, Draco thought darkly, and returned to his own desk, disappointed.

He was determined to sit at his desk that evening and wait for Potter to come to him. Around 7, he finally gave up, and went once again to look for Potter. He wasn’t at his desk, either. His disappointment now growing into annoyance, he decided to go and visit Grimmauld Place. Potter wasn’t going to avoid him, not after last night, he didn’t care what was at stake.

There was light in the corridor of 12 Grimmauld Place. Draco could see it through the window. Gotcha, he thought, and didn’t as much knock as hammered on the door. No answer. He hammered the door again, this time even louder. Finally, he could hear footsteps from inside the house, and someone fumbling with the lock.

“I know last night wasn’t expected or anything, but I’d - “ he finished half his sentence before his eyes managed to communicate to his brain what they were seeing and he realised he should shut the hell up. It wasn’t Potter who opened the door - it was Granger. He could feel the blood leaving his face.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded.

“He isn’t here,” she didn’t quite answer his question.

“What d’you mean, ‘he isn’t here’?”

“He’s gone.” She bit her lip. “I think you’d better come in, actually.”

Draco followed her inside. Granger was sitting next to the long oak table in the kitchen with Weasley, looking worried. Weasley, of course, jumped to his feet as soon as he saw Draco.

“What’s he doing here?”

“He came looking for Harry. Maybe he knows something,” she said.

“What I want to know is what do you mean when you say ‘he’s gone’? Where did he go?”

Granger and Weasley exchanged dark looks. “We don’t know. He quit the Auror office last night. No one’s seen him since.”

Draco sat down in shock. Quit... last night? But that must have happened before he showed up at his place.

“What happened?” he asked now, more quietly.

“Yaxley and a couple of his goons cornered Harry near Diagon Alley,” Granger said. “We knew they were targeting some people but we never thought they’d go after... I mean... it’s Harry!”

“He had no choice,” Weasley continued the story. “He had to kill them. Self defence,” he said defiantly, as if expecting Draco to challenge that assertion.

Granger was now looking at her shoes. “You know what Harry’s like, though. Right after that he wrote down his letter of resignation and put it on Kingsley’s desk.”

“So where is he now?”

“We don’t know. He’s disappeared. He left the Ministry around nine and then - but hold on,” to Draco’s horror, she finally seemed to register the words he said when she opened the door. “You say you saw him last night?”

“Yeah,” Draco said reluctantly, hoping against hope she would not pursue this line of questioning. “He showed up drunk at my house.”

“Your house?” Weasley’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Why your house?”

Draco just shrugged.

“When was that?”

“Around midnight.”

“What time did he leave?” Granger asked the question he dreaded most. He could feel himself going red.

“I don’t know,” he admitted.

She narrowed her eyes at him. “How can you not know?” she asked. “He comes by your house at midnight and you don’t know when - _oh_.” To Draco’s horror, Granger’s quick wit didn’t leave her even now. The perfect round _O_ her mouth had made would have been comical if it weren’t for the implications.

“He left before I woke up,” Draco mumbled.

Weasley had by now caught on as well, and was gaping at Malfoy in pure shock.

“You... him... you... _how_?!”

“You’ll forgive me if I don’t answer that particular question, Weasley,” he said coldly.

He got out of there as soon as possible. He had never enjoyed the company of those two, and in the current circumstances, it was even more unbearable. Granger seemed torn between shouting at Malfoy and asking for details, and Weasley just kept on making those stupid little incredulous noises.

He wasn’t quite sure how he managed to get to his house. His mind was too full of questions, of thoughts, so much that it threatened to explode. His mother and father started commenting about the hour, but he ignored them and went straight to his room and closed the door.

Potter was gone. It hit him as he sat down on the bed, the same place he had woken up so happy that very morning, because of Potter. He should have known it was stupid just then, he thought angrily. Blessed Potter! He had nothing but grief from him for seven years. They were enemies. They were on opposite sides, always on opposite sides. He was a fool to forget that, even for a moment.

He hated himself for forgetting that, hated himself for ever allowing Potter to sneak in into his life and pretend to be a part of it. Even if it felt good, just for a bit, to be on the same side. To believe that the great saviour of the wizarding world did not think him unworthy of his time. To think, perhaps, he might be worth saving, too.


	2. Part 2 - Winter, 2002

Draco Malfoy wasn’t sure when he had stopped thinking about this group of people as ‘Potter’s friends’ and started thinking about them as his own, but he knew perfectly well who was responsible for that transformation. Johnny.

He had met Johnny in a pub - a Muggle pub. A long time ago, it would have been surprising that these were the places Draco chose to go. Not anymore. Four years after the war, he still had to endure whispers and looks from the people around him. It was like that at the office, and when he walked into the Leaky Cauldron, they had just intensified. The Dark Mark, he had learned a long time ago, was something he could never get rid of, even when it was safely tucked away under the sleeve of his wizard’s robes. Muggle pubs were full of Muggles, had piss-poor beer and loud company, but there, at least, no one knew his face. He was no one. To Draco’s own surprise, he had found that he liked it best that way.

On the nights he felt particularly angry, or frustrated, or bored, he’d allow one of the more attractive Muggles to pick him up, and then followed to his or her flat and have good sex, no strings attached. There was something to say in favour of a city with 8 million people.

That was Johnny when he had first met him. Another attractive Muggle for a one-night stand, and the sex was mind-blowing to boot. He had noticed him almost as soon as he had walked into the pub. Johnny was tall, muscled in just the right places, and had a boyish smile full of white teeth. When Draco first offered to buy him a beer, he had laughed and said with a trace of Caribbean accent, “I don’t drink beer, but a whiskey would do just fine.”

Already then, he knew that that night would end at Johnny’s place.

Johnny’s place was mostly tidy, except for some books and magazines that were thrown unceremoniously on the sofa, and had then been even less ceremoniously shoved to the floor when the sofa became the place for Draco and Johnny to try and out-kiss each other. They had moved to the bedroom later on, and thankfully, that proved much less tidy than the rest of the flat. As Draco got dressed the morning after, Johnny said lazily, “Drop by some time if you’re in the neighbourhood,” and as he looked around, Draco thought that he just might do that.

He never dropped by.

It was Johnny who found him again, of course, a couple of weeks later, back in the same pub, and the sex was just as good as the first time. They had actually talked this time afterwards, and it turned out Johnny had brains as well - well, for a Muggle, anyway.

The next time Draco had gone to the same pub he already had hopes that Johnny would be there, and he had not been disappointed. This, however, had been the first time to offer a challenge, as Johnny gave him a piece of paper with his phone number and asked for his own.

“I don’t have a phone,” Draco answered truthfully, but it was obvious Johnny thought he was evading him.

“Everyone’s got a phone,” Johnny stated flatly.

“Not me. Never saw the point in one.”

“Not even a mobile?” Johnny asked, doubt in his voice. Draco just shrugged.

“Look,” Johnny said, “I thought we were having a good time. If you’re not interested, just say so.” Draco realised, a little too late, that in the Muggle world, a person who declared a lack of phone sounded like someone who did not want to be contacted.

“We are having a good thing,” Draco answered, looking directly into Johnny’s dark eyes, trying to communicate his honesty. “I’m _very_ interested.” He didn’t blink, even though he was all of a sudden overcome with the urge to. “I really don’t have a phone.”

Johnny looked at him for a moment longer, just long enough to make Draco wonder whether he was going to walk out without another word. But then he nodded and said, “Be here tomorrow at 5.”

Draco went home alone that night, but he still left work early to stand in front of the pub at 5 pm. Johnny was a few minutes late, and showed up just as Draco thought of giving up.

“You’re here,” Johnny smiled at him.

“Told you I’m interested.”

“Good.” Without another word, Johnny started walking into the street, and Draco followed him. They didn’t have long to walk, just a few hundred metres - just until the small shop that sold mobile phones. Johnny raised an eyebrow in a silent challenge, and Draco walked in and didn’t look back.

The business with the mobile phone looked at the time like a challenge, but as it turned out, it was only the warm-up for the real challenge, the one that appeared out of nowhere three weeks later, in the shape of a small white envelope carried by a big barn owl.

Draco knew what it was before he had even opened it, but he opened it anyway. How could he not know? The entire wizarding world had been talking about nothing else for weeks now. He just never expected to be invited, to be included. But there it was, gold on white, and he read as he sneered at the tackiness of the colour-scheme: _You are cordially invited... blah blah blah... Friday the fifteenths... blah blah... the happy families... blah blah blah... Ronald Bilius Weasley and Hermione Jean Granger_.

Much as he wanted to throw the invitation in the rubbish bin where it belonged, he knew he had to show up. Not just because this was the social event of the new millennium, as the gossip columns and life-style sections kept on insisting. No; it was because the only thing that would be worse for Draco Malfoy, former Death Eater, than not being invited, was to be invited and not show up. He knew what Granger thought this was. She must have thought she was being so clever, so _benevolent_. Trying to breach the gap between them that she had been willing to leave bloody well alone for the past four years. It was just like her, too. Just like her not to notice that what she was really doing was remind everyone of the new social order. Remind everyone that in this brave new world, right now, she was on top, and Draco Malfoy was at the bottom. She could afford inviting a former Death Eater to her wedding, and everyone would say what a wonderful person she was, and she didn’t even think that he would have to show up, and everyone would look him up and down and _mutter_ , and he hated her all the more for that.

His irritation and anger bubbled within him all day long, and the next, and the one after that too. The invitation came a week before the event - very late, he knew, but not late enough to stop the anger from turning into a vague sense of anxiety by the weekend, downright fear as the next week went by in a whoosh, and full-blown panic by Thursday afternoon.

On Thursday afternoon he was standing in Johnny’s kitchen and eating one expensive chocolate after the other without tasting them. Johnny stood there stoically without saying a word. He had asked Draco what was up a few days ago, at some point around the time his irritation had become more like anxiety. Draco said “Nothing”, and Johnny let it drop. That was another one of the reasons Draco liked Johnny - he knew when to let things go. But Draco was getting the feeling that this might be testing this tendency of his to the limits.

When Johnny opened his mouth to speak, he didn’t ask why Draco was acting like a caged lion, though. Instead, he asked in a casual voice, “What do you wanna do tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow?” Draco swallowed the chocolate, only vaguely aware of its sweetness.

“Tomorrow,” Johnny smiled. “You know? One month? One month since I bought you that mobile, anyhow. Feels like that’s the best place to start counting from.”

“One month. Shit.” Draco closed his eyes and tried to calm down. Why why _why_ , he wanted to scream. Why now. To hell with you, Granger. “I’m sorry. There’s this wedding I have to go to.”

He knew what Johnny was going to say before he had even opened his mouth. “Sounds like a date, then!” Johnny said brightly, and Draco groaned loudly.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he said quietly and opened his eyes. It was as he feared - Johnny was looking at him with cold, angry eyes.

“You’re ashamed of me?” he asked quietly. “You don’t want to show me to your friends? Is that why we never go to your place? Afraid we might run into people you know?”

“I’m not ashamed of you,” Draco said, slightly more harshly than he intended. “And they’re definitely _not_ my friends.”

“Then why are you going?”

“It’s... complicated.”

Johnny wasn’t budging an inch. “Explain, then,” he said.

For a moment, Draco thought of storming out of the overly-tidy flat, throwing the phone and never looking at Johnny’s face again. A Muggle and a Pure-blood - no, a Muggle and a _Malfoy_. It was never going to work anyway, so why waste his time? And that was what everyone at the wedding was going to think, wasn’t it - if they’d ever believe Draco had dated a Muggle in the first place. They’d say it was Draco who had ruined it all, Draco who had found it impossible to have such a relationship. In a burst of real fury, he decided at that point to make his damn best to make this relationship work just to spite them all. If Johnny would walk out tonight, he thought, it would be because the Muggle couldn’t deal with it, not because Draco Malfoy didn’t try.

“Come on,” he said abruptly, grabbing his jacket. “We’re going to my place.”

Johnny was surprised, but said nothing. He just took his own jacket and followed Draco into the night.

Draco’s flat wasn’t that far; he lived right at the edge of Diagon Alley - in the Muggle part, in fact. He wasn’t quite sure why, but he drew perverse pleasure out of that fact. They waited for the tube, rode the train in silence for five stops and finally, after no time at all, Draco got up, Johnny still following.

“This is where you live?” Johnny frowned when he realised they weren’t changing trains, but had reached their destination.

“Yeah,” Draco answered.

“Doesn’t look posh enough.”

“It has its benefits.”

They climbed up the quite filthy stairs to the third floor, where Draco didn’t even bother with the key but just opened the door. Johnny’s brow wrinkled even further at that, but still he said nothing.

At least, until he could see behind the door.

There was a very good reason he had never been to Draco’s flat, of course. It wasn’t just the size, or the general shabbiness - after all, places around Diagon Alley cost a fortune, which didn’t leave much for luxury furniture. No, it was the family pictures.

As soon as Draco opened the door he walked into the kitchen and sat down, watching Johnny. Johnny didn’t realise at first what he was looking at. His face swept the corridor, rested for a moment on Draco in the nearby kitchen - and then his brain registered what he had seen and he turned to looked at the photograph again. Behind the heavy frame, Draco’s mum was smiling indulgently, his father was wearing a frown, and Draco, aged 7, was flying around with his toy broomstick, zooming in and out of the picture.

Johnny stared for a moment longer, then turned to look at Draco. Just to drive his point home, Draco pulled out his wand and flicked it once at the air, conjuring two glasses, and again at the bottle of firewhiskey that stood on the counter. The whiskey followed the summons and advanced towards Draco, opening itself and pouring the drink into the two glasses. There was a fair amount in Draco’s glass, but he was careful not to pour too much into the second one. No point in wasting good firewhiskey, he thought, still sure Johnny would not stay long enough to drink the drink.

Johnny didn’t move the whole time. Only when the bottle was resting safely on the counter once again and Draco had already taken a sip did he open his mouth and speak. “How...? How did you do that?”

“Magic.”

“C’mon...”

“I’m not yanking your chain. Magic. That’s how I did it. I’m a wizard.”

To Draco’s surprise, Johnny took a step forward, not backwards. Then another. Then he sat down next to Draco and took the second glass in hand, sniffing it suspiciously, before tasting the rich firewhiskey in it. “Smooth,” he said, and they both laughed. The tension was broken.

The next hour and a half were the most bizarre in Draco’s life. Johnny asked question after question - how magic worked, what kind of things Draco could do, what kind of things he _couldn’t_ do, where he had learnt it all... all the questions that Draco, as a Pure-blood, never had to deal with. He answered gladly, openly, but also in a slightly guarded manner that he hoped Johnny didn’t notice. Some things he didn’t want to explain.

He had almost allowed himself the hope that the whole topic of the wedding had been forgotten, when Johnny started asking him about it.

“So whose wedding are we going to tomorrow?”

“Granger and Weasley. The event of the year, apparently,” Draco sneered.

“You don’t like them too much,” Johnny observed.

“I don’t like them _at all_ ,” Draco corrected him.

“Then why are you going? Draco Malfoy, wizard extraordinaire, has to show his face or people will think he’s not important enough?”

For the second time that night, Draco found himself saying reluctantly, “It’s... complicated.” This time, however, Johnny’s eyes weren’t cold, but curious and warm.

“What happened?” he asked quietly. He could see it written all over his face, Draco knew. Something had happened, of course, and Johnny could see it.

“There was a war. I was on one side. They were on the other. My side lost.”

Johnny gave him a calculating look. “Is that why you’re going to regular pubs? Not wizard pubs?”

By now, Draco knew he wasn’t wrong in his original assessment of Johnny - he was clever, clever and fast, and he didn’t disappoint this time, too. Draco felt almost relieved. He wouldn’t have to explain everything, after all.

“Yeah,” he nodded. “Yeah. The looks I get sometimes, the whispers... it all gets too much after a while, you know?”

“So what, they’re just rubbing it in now?”

Draco shrugged. “Nah. I think Granger actually means well. That - ” he failed to find an epithet he would be comfortable using after all those years and in present company. “She probably thinks it’s time to reach out for peace or whatever it is she’s babbling about these days.”

“And the other one? Weasley?”

“Oh, he hates my guts,” Draco said with a smile. “He probably only agreed to invite me in order to rub it in.”

“You’d think, seeing as they won, they could be nicer about it,” Johnny said in indignation, and for a moment, his reaction warmed Draco’s heart.

But it was an evening of honesty, and even though Draco would have preferred to be subjected to some pretty nasty curses rather than tell Johnny what really went on in the war, he couldn’t allow this indignation in his name. “Don’t think - it’s not - they’re right, though,” he finally found the right words. “It’s a good thing my side lost.”

Johnny gave him another shrewd, calculating look, but this time, he didn’t ask for an explanation. As if Draco needed another proof that he had much more common sense than anyone else around him.

**-X-**

If Draco thought he looked dashing in his grey dress robes, it was nothing compared to Johnny’s deep red suit. For a moment, Draco’s heart jumped with glee: not only was he coming to Weasley and Granger’s wedding with a date, a Muggle date, but boy, was his date damn good looking. Instead of saying it, he just wolf-whistled.

Johnny, for his part, tried - and failed - to stifle a laugh when he saw Draco. “ _What_ are you wearing?” he demanded.

“Dress robes - hey, don’t laugh! This pattern’s the height of fashion in the wizarding world this year.”

Johnny sniggered. “You wizards sure do have a weird sense of fashion,” he said.

“I could say the same thing about Muggles.”

“You could,” Johnny conceded, “but after the way you just looked at me, I know you’d be lying.”

Draco just smiled. He was caught, but he didn’t mind.

Getting to the wedding wasn’t much of a problem. The wedding was in London and, as Granger’s whole family were Muggles, was fairly accessible. Draco was torn between his wish to show off to Johnny, now that his magic was out in the open, and between the fact that it was, in the end, much simpler getting there with the Tube. They went for the Muggle transportation in the end - practicality won. Another time, Draco promised himself, he’ll show Johnny exactly the benefits of dating a wizard.

They got there just in time for the ceremony. It was tediously long and boring, with Weasley looking like a ginger prat as usual, and Granger actually looking decent for a change. After the ceremony came the reception, and Draco realised, to his surprise and horror, that people were almost as interested in him and Johnny as they were in Granger and Weasley. He stayed next to one table, suspicious and wary, and mostly undisturbed, but he could see people’s eyes following him, and, once Johnny got up to get something to eat, he saw people getting up to talk to him.

For a wild moment, he wanted to hear what they were saying. Were they wondering what he was doing there with Draco? Warning him? Hinting - or outright telling - of Draco’s past?

But it didn’t seem to be the case. Johnny remained in a good mood, and became happily drunker and drunker on the good wine that was being served. “You,” he pointed at Draco and laughed, “have got some cool friends. Feel like dancing?”

“Not really,” Draco answered.

“Spoil sport. Well, do whatever you please, I’m going dancing,” Johnny jumped up from his seat and went to join Granger and Weasley’s friends who were butchering some Muggle music on the dance floor. Draco stared gloomily into his drink.

When someone next collapsed into Johnny’s seat, Draco assumed it would be his date, who had had enough dancing by then. He was taken aback when he realised it was Granger.

“Hi,” she greeted him, a radiant smile on her lips.

“Hi,” he mumbled. “Er, congratulations.”

“Thanks! It’s a nice party, isn’t it? I’m glad my family and Ron’s are mingling so well.”

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Wonderful.” What was she doing here, exactly?

“And I like your date. He’s really sweet. And good looking!” she laughed. “He’s a Muggle, isn’t he?”

“Yes,” no longer mumbling, he looked at her defiantly.

She wasn’t gloating, or mocking him, or any of the things he feared. She looked - if that was possible - genuinely happy for him. “I was talking to him earlier. He’s really sweet. A good catch, I think.”

“Thanks,” he said, unsure what else to say.

“Don’t mess it up,” she smiled, and got up again, and was immediately replaced by Johnny.

“She is wonderful. Remind me why you two aren’t better friends again?” he asked.

Draco sighed. “Long story,” he said.

Johnny gave Draco then one of his long, penetrating gazes. “Come on,” he said.

“What?”

“I’ve had enough with you sulking here. You’re getting up and dancing with me.”

None of Draco’s protests were any good. Johnny forced him to get up and dragged him to the dance floor, where one noisy Muggle song after the other blasted through the loudspeakers, punctuated at times by something by the Weird Sisters or, whenever Weasley’s mother was allowed anywhere near the sound system, Celestina Warbeck.

Once he started dancing, Draco could see it wasn’t half as bad as he had expected it to be. He bumped into other people every once in a while, but, perhaps out of respect to the bride and groom, none of them made a scene, and they all laughed it off. After a while, he really did start feeling better. The physicality of jumping up and down might not have been the way a proud, well educated Malfoy was supposed to behave, but as it turned out, it was _fun_.

Half an hour later, quite breathless, he collapsed into his chair in a laughing fit with Johnny. And other people filled the chairs around them - Granger, Weasley, Weasley’s sister, Longbottom, that mad Lovegood girl... in short, Potter’s old gang were all of a sudden sitting there, laughing with Draco at his boyfriend’s jokes and having fun. He almost feared them calming down enough to notice who they were sitting with.

Longbottom raised his glass. “Hermione... Ron... may all your days be as perfect as this one!”

“Hear, hear!” they all sad. Only Granger had a strange, wistful look on her face.

“What?” Weasley asked her.

“ _Almost_ perfect,” she sighed. All of a sudden, Draco realised what she meant. Of course. Almost perfect - but for the absence of one Harry Potter.

No one had heard from Potter for over four years. No one knew his whereabouts. It was as if the earth opened its mouth and swallowed him alive. For all they knew, he could be dead somewhere. Or in trouble. Or having a whole new life, with a bunch of new friends. Or he could be just next door, hiding from all of them. There was no word.

Longbottom seemed to think this as well. “You know, I’ve been wondering,” he said quietly, so that only the people at the table could hear. “Maybe he is here.”

Weasley raised an eyebrow. “I don’t see him,” he said.

“Yeah, but he could be under the cloak, couldn’t he? Or maybe he took Polyjuice Potion - isn’t that what he did at your brother’s wedding?”

“Yeah, but that was so that other people wouldn’t recognise him, we knew he was there,” Weasley pointed out.

“I don’t think so, Neville,” Granger sighed. “I don’t think he could come here and not say anything.”

“You don’t think he’s - “ Ginny Weasley started saying something, then seemed to think better of it and stared into her drink, all happiness drained out of her.

“I’m sure he’s alright,” Granger whispered.

“Erm, who are you talking about?” Johnny asked, and everyone jumped, shaking away the memories they had undoubtedly sunk into and getting back to reality.

“Just an old friend,” Granger smiled and got up. She took Weasley’s hand and dragged him back to the dance floor, for a romantic slow dance. The Lovegood oddity followed them, although her ‘dancing’ was anything but slow and romantic, and after a moment or two Ginny Weasley followed her, except that she went to dance with Dean Thomas. It was only Draco, Johnny, and Longbottom at the table now.

“You haven’t heard from him, have you?” Longbottom asked.

“Nope.”

“You’d have told us if you did, though, wouldn’t you?”

Draco gave him a contemptuous look. “Longbottom, why would I tell you _anything_?”

Longbottom flushed and jumped to his feet. “Because for _some of us_ ,” he emphasised those three words, “he meant a lot more than just a one-night stand,” and left the table.

Draco could feel himself flushing as well. He threw his napkin in irritation.

“That wasn’t very nice of you,” Johnny said quietly.

Draco shrugged. He wasn’t going to hear lectures about his treatment of Longbottom or any of the others, not from someone who didn’t know anything about - well, anything, really.

“So who were they talking about?”

“Potter,” he spat, knowing it wasn’t an answer at all.

“He an ex of yours?”

Now Draco flushed again. The memory of that night, four years ago, came back to his mind as vividly as if it were yesterday. “Sort of,” he said. It was easier than explaining anything else. Johnny didn’t ask more.

In Draco’s opinion, that wedding was a complete disaster, and a good reminder that he should stay away from Potter’s old friends. It was therefore a complete surprise when, a month or so later, Granger had caught up with him one day at lunch.

“Malfoy,” she called. He turned around, slightly wary. What did Granger want with him?

“Listen, me and Ron, we’re having a dinner this weekend, just for some people, and, well, we, I mean I, well, we thought, maybe you and Johnny would like to come?”

It was a good thing he didn’t have anything in his mouth. If he had, he would surely have choked on it upon hearing what could only be described as an invitation.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, Granger,” technically she was Granger-Weasley these days, but that was a mouthful, “but _why_?”

She didn’t seem upset at the question. “We like Johnny,” she said simply. “He was a lot of fun at the wedding, and we’d like to see more of him - even if it means seeing more of you,” there was some mischievousness in her smile. He couldn’t quite get angry with her. “And you’re a lot more bearable when you’re around him. You were almost fun at the wedding, at times. Believe me, I’m just as surprised as you are,” she added, again with the same smile.

He laughed despite his better judgement. “Fine,” he said, trying to turn the smile into a grudging annoyance. “Since your dinner party will obviously be ruined without my presence. I’ll ask Johnny if he can make it - and don’t worry, Granger, I won’t show up alone, it’s either the both of us or none of us. To be honest, you’re a lot easier to stomach too, when Johnny’s around.”

“I’m glad we have an understanding, Malfoy,” she smiled and was gone.

It turned out Johnny _could_ make it - and that he was quite looking forward to seeing Granger and her pals again. Draco had got a moment’s pleasure from taking him in side-along Apparition to their house, making good on his decision to show off a bit of magic to Johnny, and, encouraged by Johnny’s delighted expression, they walked into the house.

To Draco’s surprise, he didn’t end up regretting accepting the invitation - the dinner was quite pleasant, the food good, and once Granger and Weasley pulled out a couple of expensive wine bottles, he discovered that alcohol made the company a lot more palatable. Before he knew it, he was sitting on a sofa next to Granger and having a heart-to-heart on how much they both missed Potter. It was the first time he had allowed himself to admit that he missed that stupid, bumbling git, and it felt better to say it out loud and to know that the person in front of him didn’t think any less of him for admitting it.

**-X-**

After that first dinner, he was invited to Hermione and Ron’s dinners even on the rare evenings Johnny couldn’t make it. Johnny usually could, though, especially once things got more serious between the two of them and Johnny moved in with him. After a while, they started hosting these dinners as well, and were invited, in turn, to dinners not just with Hermione, but in Neville’s house, with Ginny and Dean Thomas, and even Luna Lovegood had volunteered her house and cooking every once in a while, but everyone brought food to these because she was more likely to make gurdyroot beer and plimpie soup than food any human being would actually want to eat.

They soon started talking about other things. He found out that, out of school and the ridiculous House competitions, Hermione was truly clever, and had quite a number of long interesting discussions with her. Neville turned out to have a wicked sense of humour, and as he was trying to learn more about Muggles and understand a bigger part of Johnny’s world, Dean Thomas, who was Muggle-born, was happy to explain some of the wackier things that Muggles did.

It was in no time that these dinners were Draco’s favourite form of socialising with other people. It was not so surprising, if he thought about it rationally. He and Johnny could spend time with Johnny’s Muggle friends, but to spend time with people who knew Draco, there were only Hermione, Ron and their friends. He was reminded of how much this was his reality when he had tried bringing Johnny to dinner a couple of times at his parents’ home. The result, of course, was disastrous. He didn’t know whether Johnny realised his father had something particularly against him, but after the second dinner spent in complete silence - other than the nasty looks Lucius Malfoy gave both his son and his son’s boyfriend - he gave up on the idea. The shouting match the day after, that included too many instances of the words ‘blood purity’, ‘Muggle’, and ‘shame’, were almost enough for Draco to never visit his parents again. So Draco gave up on the idea of making Johnny one with his family, and decided to keep to his friends, instead.

That was what they became, in time - friends. Or almost friends, because the memory of Harry Potter kept hovering above them, always, even when he wasn’t mentioned by name.

Every once in a while, his old gang got a nostalgia attack, and start bringing up memories and stories. “Remember that time he told Snape he didn’t have to call him _Sir_?” Neville roared with laughter. “He had no idea Hagrid was going to throw him on Buckbeak, do you remember his face?!” Hermione burst into a giggly fit. “How he flew against that Hungarian Horntail, man, I thought it was going to get him for a moment there!” Ron re-told the tale in an admiring look. Draco always sat stiffly at those moments, slightly apart from everyone. In this, he had no part.

He preferred to have no part, because when he did, it was always worse, like the time Seamus was re-telling what had happened the night of the great battle.

“So we’re all sitting in the Great Hall eating dinner, right?” he said. “And it’s all quiet just like the Carrows liked it, and then there’s pudding, and Michael’s brother used to work in Gringotts back then. So anyway, he must have told him something, ‘cause we’re all starting on pudding when Michael suddenly jumps up on the Ravenclaw table - ” he jumped to his feet - “and shouts” - he affected an East London accent over his native Dublin one - “ _Harry Potter broke into Gringotts and escaped on a dragon_!”

They all roared with laughter, except for Draco.

“I’m telling you, it’s something, it was _brilliant_. Everyone cheered like mad, no one even heard the Carrows shouting. I can’t believe - none of you were actually there, were you? Oh,” he turned red, “you were there, Draco, weren’t you.”

“Yeah,” Draco said and hoped they would change the subject.

Johnny, however, drank in every word. Draco had never asked him how much he managed to piece together about Potter, about the war. Whether he’d realised by now Draco’s own part in it.

At the end of it, it always came back to one thing, he thought bitterly one evening when they were all sitting next to the fire and Hermione was hit with another nostalgia attack. They were all on one side, and he was on the other. There was no way around it. He wasn’t really a part of their gang. He could never be a part of their gang, because they had all those memories of being on the right side together, and he was alone on the wrong side.

He wasn’t even sure how the subject came up again. Perhaps it was the book Hermione was writing, perhaps the cooking, but she started telling them about the time they had been on the run and her sad attempts at fixing dinner back then. “Honestly,” she laughed, “we must have learned to recognise every single edible mushroom in the British forests!”

They roared with laughter, but Draco only allowed himself a small smile. It was good that they could laugh at it now, but he still felt uncomfortable laughing with them. War memories were not something he could laugh about.

“Is that why you hate mushrooms?” Johnny asked Ron.

“Oh, yes. Trust me. Starving on mushrooms can give you a whole different attitude towards them. It’s a shame,” he looked with glazed eyes at the fire. “I used to love mushrooms. Can’t stand anything with mushrooms now. Mum used to make this gorgeous mushroom pie, though.”

“She still does,” Hermione hit him over the shoulder. “You just never take from it anymore!”

“Yeah, well, that’s my point, isn’t it?” he asked and she roared with laughter, and everyone else joined her.

“Yeah,” Dean joined in. “I remember when we were hiding in a forest - me and Ted Tonks, that is - we just stayed there ‘cause we figured there were some fish in the streams there and fishing every once in a while was better than trying to collect berries and all that.”

“Oh!” Hermione sent her hand to her mouth. “We never told you, didn’t we? We were so close once!”

“Close? How d’you mean?”

“Well, we heard you, I think it was right after you met up with Griphook and the other goblin...”

He stared at her in shock. “You were _there_?!”

“Yeah, we were camping right next to you; you couldn’t see us because of all the protective charms over our tent...”

They all started laughing again at the thought of the two groups being so close and still missing each other.

“Hey, Draco,” Johnny said out of laughter, “maybe you were somewhere around there too. Where were _you_ camped during that war?”

The atmosphere in the room changed immediately. Johnny looked at them in confusion, as he must have registered the change from laughter to seriousness, how all the smiles drained away.

“Um,” he said. “Did I say something wrong?”

Draco got up. “I’ll go wash the dishes,” he said quietly. He wasn’t surprised when Hermione followed him.

He kept his back turned to her. He knew what she was going to say. He didn’t want to have that conversation.

“Are you ever going to tell him?” she asked softly, as he knew she would. That was the worst part of it. Now that they were - friends, for lack of a better word - she actually felt sympathy towards him in these situations. Even though she shouldn’t. Even though her sympathy was just as bad as if she had felt contempt towards him, the same contempt he felt himself, for being too much of a coward to tell Johnny the truth. To see his expression change when he realised exactly what Draco’s side had done during the war. What Draco had done.

“No,” he said shortly, leaving the rest unsaid.

“It was years ago, Draco. No one holds it against you anymore. We’re friends now.”

“Are we?” he turned to her, not quite sure whether he was angry with her, or perhaps with himself, but she was the easier target.

“Of course we are,” she stiffened.

“Hermione Granger, _Mudblood and proud_ ,” he intentionally said the offensive word, “friends with a former Death Eater? Really, Granger?”

“Former being the operative word here, Draco,” she said, refusing to back down or get angry at his choice of words. “You’ve changed. You’re probably not admitting it to yourself, but you’ve changed. I can tell.”

“You can tell less than you think you can,” he said harshly.

“It’s okay to feel shame,” she went on, quite undaunted. “It’s alright to feel guilty.”

“Merlin knows I have things to feel guilty about, is it?”

“Yes. You do.”

He glared at her for a moment. Now, she laughed. “What?” she asked. “You expected me to say no? To say everything you did was just fine? To tell you it wasn’t your fault? Of course it was your fault, Draco. Not as much as your father’s, but you were old enough. You made at least some of your choices, and they were terrible, and petty, and wrong.”

“And you’re just keen on reminding me that, aren’t you,” he said bitterly.

“No, I’m not. When was the last time we brought up what _you_ did during the war?” she was raising her voice now, annoyed, and he raised his voice too.

“No, but you keep on bringing up what you did then!”

“Yeah, because we didn’t have the luxury of staying at Hogwarts and hoping it would go away! We were running for our lives, Malfoy!”

“Yeah! From me and my pals! I know!”

“Not from you! From Voldemort!”

“Oh, I forgot, I just wasn’t _important_ enough to be one of the big guys, is that it, is that what - “

“What’s going on here?” that was Ron’s voice - and he was accompanied by Johnny.

Draco caught himself. He was holding a frying pan high in the air instead of soaping it. Hermione, on the other hand, looked as though she was about to throw the plates in her hand at him at any moment. He looked for a moment from her, to Ron - and to Johnny, wondering how much exactly he had heard, praying, as he always did, that he didn’t hear enough to reach any meaningful conclusions. He lowered his arm and returned to soaping the frying pan in silence.

After a few moments, once Ron and Johnny went back to the living room, he could hear Hermione walking tentatively towards him, getting closer and closer.

“I’m sorry,” she said in a much softer voice.

“Don’t be,” he said irritably.

“I mean it, Draco. I shouldn’t have - “

“You don’t get it,” he cut across her. “You have nothing to be sorry about. That’s the point, Hermione. I’m the one who’s sorry, and that isn’t going to change.” He rinsed the plates in silence for a moment, until it burst out of him, because he’d got used to opening up to Hermione. “I wish I could go back and do it all again,” he said bitterly.

“Draco...”

“Dumbledore offered, did you know?” she remained quiet, and he went on. “In the Astronomy tower, before Snape... before he died. He said they could arrange to hide my family from the Dar - from Voldemort.” He still shuddered, saying the name. The habit of years. But he had promised himself he was going to start saying it. It’d been long enough. “I could have said yes then. I could have told him ‘Yeah, let’s cross over to your side’. I didn’t. I couldn’t imagine not being on the same side as Voldemort, even though he really did mean for me to die back then. And even later. Don’t you remember? I tried stopping you all the way until the very end.”

“If you had betrayed them and they’d won...” she whispered, making his excuses for him.

“Yeah, that’s what I told myself, wasn’t it? If Voldemort had won, and he learnt that I betrayed him, I’d be dead. Didn’t stop you from fighting him. And don’t go on about being Muggle-born, it didn’t stop Ron, either, and he’s Pure-blood.”

“We know you made some awful choice, Draco,” she sighed. “We can live with that. Maybe it’s time you learned to live with it, too.”

He turned his back on her and returned to rinsing the dishes. She was quiet for so long that he had thought she left the room, and was surprised to feel her hands on him, hugging him. “You can’t change what happened back then. But I’m glad we’re on the same side now,” she whispered in his ear and was gone. He kept on washing the plates in silence.

**-X-**

It was a few months after that incident that an owl showed up in their flat, carrying a huge parcel. Johnny had by then learned to deal with owls, but he still was surprised at the sheer size of the package.

“What’s in this?” he asked once he freed the poor owl and let it go on its way.

“Dunno,” Draco answered. “Let’s find out.”

“Hey - it’s from Hermione!”

“Oh...” Draco had a sinking feeling in his stomach. He thought he knew what it was now - and he wasn’t wrong. Hermione had spent the last several months putting on paper everything she knew about Voldemort and about the war. She had received a very lucrative book deal to write the most extensive book on the subject, but it was more than that, she said. “I want people to know the full story. So they won’t forget.”

She had consulted Draco, of course, at least in parts. He could give her a better account than anyone about the time Voldemort had lived in their home; he could give her the inside details on what the meetings he had attended were like. How Voldemort was on a day-to-day basis. He didn’t feel he had that much to contribute, but she still sat down with him and interviewed him for several hours. And now, he thought grimly, the result.

He was right - as soon as they opened the brown paper, they could see it was a book, and read the title. _Tom Marvolo Riddle: the Rise and Fall of Lord Voldemort_ , by Hermione Granger-Weasley.

Draco took the large volume in a shaking hand. He wasn’t sure he wanted to read it, but still, he felt drawn to it. And as he started reading, he found out something else. The details of Voldemort’s life meant nothing to him. His childhood in an orphanage, his years at Hogwarts, his first rise to power - this was all new to him, but he didn’t care. No, what he cared about was in the second part of the volume. Hermione didn’t put in anything organised about Potter. There was no chapter titled ‘The Boy Who Lived’, no extensive biography of the Chosen One. She would never betray like that her best friend’s confidence, even if he was mostly likely dead by now and anyway wasn’t around to protest. But every once in a while, there was a snippet, a piece of information, something he didn’t know about the great saviour of the wizarding world. A small comment here suggested an abusive childhood with Muggles who were afraid of magic and despised everything and everyone that had anything to do with it; a footnote there suggested he had held himself guilty for so many deaths that were out of his control during the war. A small paragraph showed the bravery of a fifteen-year-old, who was burdened with learning he had a fate he could not escape from. The climatic ending of the story wasn’t what Draco thought it’d be, the last battle he had witnessed himself, but rather before that, when Potter had turned himself in. And mostly, the little comments here and there, some snippets of a teenager’s life, that were full of affection and care. All those incidents he had seen from afar and despised at the time turned out to be sweet and innocent from up close, when told by a friend.

It was Potter as he had never known him. Draco combed the book for all those minor pieces of information, all those little facts, and all the time he wondered how things would have been different had he been allowed to see this Potter back when he was eleven. How things could have played out differently. Perhaps better.

He had read the book time and again, looking for all those small details. He just hadn’t realised that once the book was out there in the open, he was not the only one who could read it.

He came back home one Saturday night late from work. They had been pulling double shifts and working on weekends in preparations for some ridiculous inspection, and by the time he got home, he was cold, hungry, and angry.

“How was your day?” Johnny asked. He didn’t quite register the careful, measured tone of voice Johnny used. If he had, his would have been put on his guard sooner. But Draco was too tired and hungry to pay attention to that.

“Awful. Honestly, I just wish that this inspection was behind us by now. If this doesn’t end soon, I’m going to quit, honest. How was your day?”

“Interesting,” Johnny said.

“Oh? What did you do?” he asked carelessly.

“I’ve been reading.”

“Reading? What - ” he froze. He was now in the living room, and could see the book in Johnny’s hand - Hermione’s book.

“Your dad’s mentioned here quite a lot,” Johnny said quietly.

Draco closed his eyes in horror. All thought of food had escaped him. When he opened them, Johnny was still there, looking at him that way - he didn’t even seem angry, that was the worst bit. Draco could deal with angry. No, it was betrayal in his face, written all over his face. The truth at last, and what a truth it was.

“I said the first time I told you I was a wizard,” Draco said, fighting to keep his voice calm. “I was on the wrong side of the war.”

“But you’ve never said what that war was about.”

“No,” Draco agreed. “I haven’t.”

“You don’t still believe - “

“Don’t be stupid,” Draco snapped. “You think I’d be living here with you if I did?”

“And your father?” Johnny asked quietly again.

Draco’s silence was a confession all by itself. Johnny swore. “Hell, Draco, I thought his problem with me was the same as my parents, y’know, that I’m gay. Or maybe that I’m black.”

“What? What kind of ridiculous Muggle nonsense is that? Why would anyone give a damn what you look like or that you’re a guy?”

“Oh, yeah, wizards don’t have any problem who you’re fucking, as long as you make sure they have three generations of wizards on each side!” Johnny retorted.

Draco bit his lip. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “You’re right, I was out of line.”

“Yeah, you were.”

“Look, Johnny, my father is still living in the Dark Ages,” he said. “We don’t need his approval. I don’t need his approval and you most certainly don’t. Yeah, he still believes all this rubbish about blood purity. He hasn’t learned his lesson. The only reason he’s not in Azkaban right now is...”

“... is Harry Potter,” Johnny completed the sentence for him.

Draco didn’t answer.

Johnny’s expression softened. “It’s just, whenever Ron or Hermione or Neville or whatever, whenever they talk about it, you know, all those stories they have. It’s always jokes, it’s always funny, escaping on dragons and fighting trolls and things. it’s not... It’s not this.” He waved the book around, his face full of confusion, of uncertainty.

“That’s because they’re glossing over the bad stuff, Johnny. Who wants to remember all that shit? Who wants to talk about how my father tortured them or my aunt murdered someone close to them or how they had to run for their lives? I’m not proud of what I did back then. I’m not proud of my family, Johnny. I don’t want to remember that shit and they don’t want to remember that shit and that’s how it is.”

“Okay,” Johnny whispered and leaned forward to kiss him, and Draco’s heart allowed itself some hope, that maybe his finding out the truth wasn’t going to be the end of the world.

It was only later that Potter’s name came up again. Johnny was sprawled on the bed, his breath slowly returning to normal and his skin still glistening with sweat. Draco was also busy catching his breath. A moment later, Johnny leaned on his arm, studying Draco in silence.

“What are you thinking about now?” Draco asked, smirking.

Johnny didn’t return the smile. “It sounds like he was a bit more than your ex, that Potter,” he said.

Draco’s smile left his face. He didn’t answer.

“Sounds like he’s the bloody second coming from that book, too, Draco,” Johnny pressed on. Draco didn’t know what to say. It wasn’t that far from reality, was it?

“You’re still in love with him,” Johnny stated.

“No, I’m not,” Draco said hotly.

Johnny looked at him in silence for another moment or two. “No, you’re right,” he agreed. “You’re not in love with him. You love him.”

Draco didn’t bother denying it. They both knew it was true.

“What do you think, then?” he asked awkwardly, and to his surprise, Johnny kissed him.

“I’m thinking that I’m glad he’s gone and left you for me,” he said.


	3. Part 3 - Spring, 2006

The man wasn’t attractive - not what Johnny would define as attractive, anyway, and definitely not to Draco’s taste. He was too scrawny, for one, too wiry, looking almost under-fed. His shock of jet black hair had no elegance in it, none of the shape and form Draco always liked. And his clothes were even less elegant - he was wearing an old faded t-shirt of some band and trousers that had seen better days.

But there was something about him. That was what made Johnny notice him in the first place. Something in the mischievous smile, or the absolutely calm way he threw himself at the stool and surveyed the room, as if he didn’t have a care in the world. There was some sort of self assuredness in him, the kind that could be mistaken as that brand of simple magnetism that just drew the eye.

He wouldn’t have bothered, had it not been obvious that the man had noticed Draco. He was sitting in the same spot for half an hour, his eyes fixed on the dance floor, fixed on Draco. Johnny cursed his leg again - if he hadn’t sprained his ankle, he would have been up there on the dance floor _with_ Draco, rather than down here, next to the bar, drinking whiskey and learning how people around were noticing his boyfriend.

Another song, another dance, and that bloke simply wasn’t taking his eyes off Draco. This had gone far enough, Johnny thought and decided to go and have a word. Just to make sure he didn’t get the wrong idea.

“Hey,” he said as he sat down on an empty barstool. Between the dark room and the loud music, he wasn’t quite sure whether the man would even know he was there, let along hear him. But he did - he smiled, said “Hello”, and tilted his head at the barman, as if asking, Buy you a drink?

“Nah,” he said.

The man shrugged. “You’re with him, right?” he gestured at the dance floor, at Draco. There was a trace of accent to his voice - like he had been born somewhere else and lived in London most of his life, or perhaps, born there but had lived a substantial amount of time out of the country.

“Yeah. Noticed you were looking,” Johnny couldn’t help but be honest.

The black-haired man laughed, and there was something infectious about his laughter. “Look, don’t touch,” he said. “Gotcha.”

Now Johnny was feeling a bit ridiculous. “I didn’t mean to come off all - ”

“Nah, it’s alright,” the man didn’t even let him finish the sentence. “Makes perfect sense. He’s an attractive man. How come you’re not there with him?”

“My stupid ankle,” Johnny admitted.

“Ah. That’s a shame.” The man looked him up and down some more. “Actually, you’re not bad looking yourself, you know.”

Now Johnny laughed, too. “I’m kinda taken, too.”

The man’s green eyes twinkled behind his glasses. “Don’t worry. Duly noted,” he said. “Look, don’t touch.”

“Something like that, yeah.”

He certainly _looked_ \- there wasn’t any conscious attempt at seduction in his eyes when he measured Johnny up and down quietly, but the more he did that, the more attractive Johnny found him. Johnny shook his head and turned to look back at Draco. He always had a soft spot for those guys who had this effortless confidence. That was how he found himself drawn to Draco in the first place. Draco had that same confidence, or rather, what Johnny learned later, arrogance that had disguised itself so well as confidence. By the time he had met him his family was already poor and down on their luck, but the way he was raised still left room for nothing but the absolute self-assurance that he had a right to be there and that things would work in his favour.

Johnny wondered quietly whether it was the same with this guy, and stole another glance at him. He was now back with his drink in his hand, back to looking at Draco. His confidence didn’t feel like Draco’s - there wasn’t anything like Draco’s self-satisfied smirk, for example, nor did he stand as if he owned the place, the way Draco often did. No, Green Eyes simply leaned there on the bar, looking at Draco, as if there was no reason not to do so.

Johnny returned his eyes to Draco.

“Tell Malfoy I said hi,” he heard the voice next to him and jumped. By the time he looked around - only a split second after he registered the meaning of those words - Green Eyes had already gone. Disappeared into thin air. Wizards!

By the time Draco dropped next to him on the same barstool and ordered a drink, it was as if the wizard had never been there.

Johnny spent the next three days wondering whether he should tell Draco about the man. He didn’t know who it was, of course, but he had no doubt Draco would recognise the description. Something in the encounter stopped him from telling him straight away, though. Not just the fact that the man had been looking at Draco all that time. No, it was more the way he had said those last words. ‘Tell Malfoy I said hi’... There was some sort of familiarity there that had Johnny worried. And then the three days had passed and it didn’t matter anymore whether he would tell him or not.

It was Ron’s birthday, and Hermione had been working for two whole weeks, trying to make it perfect. They were spending the weekend with his family, but on the actual day she had set up a small party, just for their best friends, in their London flat. Johnny and Draco, of course, had got there fashionably late - as they always did.

“I swear,” Johnny sighed for the fifth time, “I have never met someone as vain as you are.”

“What? What’s wrong with looking good?”

“Draco, you’ve got about three sets of decent robes in your wardrobe, and they’ve seen them all.”

“Ah, but not this combination.”

Johnny declined to continue the conversation. It couldn’t go anywhere he’d want it to go. Instead, he rang the doorbell.

There was no reply.

Confused, he rang it again. They could hear voices from within the house - people were already there, Hermione was definitely there, and yet, no one seemed to hear their ringing.

“Maybe they’re - ” Draco started, and was cut off by a loud laughter that came from within the house - “busy.”

Johnny tried the doorknob - faster, he thought, than ringing the doorbell a third time - but the door was locked. Draco raised an eyebrow and pulled out his wand. A tap on the door and it opened up.

“Nice,” Johnny said. There were definitely benefits to dating a wizard. Magic was only one of them, but it _was_ a major one.

They walked inside, greeted by another burst of delighted laughter - Hermione’s.

“Hello,” Draco called, announcing their presence just before they walked into the living room.

Johnny stopped on the spot. The unknown man on the sofa, surrounded by all of their friends, was the same man from the pub. The same dark, messy hair, the same glasses, the same lack of style, although now it was in wizard’s robes rather than Muggle clothing. The same confident, mischievous smile, while everyone else around him was roaring with laughter.

A small glance at Draco told him he hadn’t been wrong. Draco was rooted to his place, staring at the man with disbelief in his eyes. His face seemed to move between shades faster than should be possible - first a deep red, then, just as quickly, completely white, as if all the blood was drained out of it.

He knew then who the man was, knew with stomach all of a sudden full of lead, a split second before Hermione noticed them and got up, delighted, saying, “Oh, Draco! Look who’s here - Johnny! You haven’t actually ever met Harry, have you?”

If Potter told his old friends where he had been all that time, he had done so before they arrived. Johnny suspected he didn’t - a question here and there, a comment, and it seemed that Potter had not actually shared anything about his whereabouts or the things he did. It was obvious he had not stayed in the UK from his accent, but other than that, nothing was certain.

And Johnny, allowing him and his old friends their space and their reunion, watching from the side, had noticed he had hardly talked at all. Mainly, it seemed, he was interested in listening, in learning what had happened to his friends all that time. He would sit there, half the time hugged with Hermione, the other side by side with Ron, encouraged them to talk more, to show him wedding pictures, to tell him what they were doing and how had things been, turning to Neville and Luna and Ginny and Dean, and all that time he listened.

Even with Draco - Johnny had seen them talking when the evening and alcohol had settled in and everyone was a little bit tired and not really paying attention anymore.

“How are things going?” Potter asked Draco quietly.

“Fine,” Draco answered stiffly.

“Your parents?”

“You know. Still living in denial, like always. Father’s as insufferable as always.”

Johnny had perked up his ears. By now, he had heard enough about Potter to know of the bad blood between him and Lucius Malfoy, the kind of bad blood that had even dwarfed Lucius’ distaste and contempt towards Johnny.

“I’m sorry,” Potter said quietly.

“Yeah.”

“I take it they’re not thrilled about Johnny?”

“Guess.”

Potter sighed. “Look on the bright side, Malfoy; at least it doesn’t matter if they take you out of their will.”

And that was all it took. Just like that, with one silly, sarcastic comment, Draco was roaring with laughter, and the conversation between them became animated and - Johnny noticed - much more intimate.

He got up. All of a sudden, he wanted to check if there was some more wine left in the kitchen. Or something to eat. Or even wash the dishes, preferably with the water coming as loud as possible out of the tap. Anything but listen to the two of them talking.

Hermione was already there, putting things back into the fridge, sending the dishes to get themselves washed with her wand. She was moving around the room so lightly, almost dancing with happiness.

“Johnny!” she said with a smile when she saw him.

“Just wondering if there’s some more wine,” he mumbled.

“Oh, sure,” she flicked her wand, and a bottle came flying out of one of the cupboards. “Madam Rosmerta’s finest oak mature mead - you want to taste it, it’s wonderful. I was just thinking of taking it out with some chocolates.”

“Just what everyone needs to fall asleep,” he said, not really feeling like smiling.

He uncorked the bottle and poured some of it into a clean glass. He stood up then back from the counter, but only then realised he chose exactly the wrong spot to stand. From where he was, he had direct line of sight to Draco, who was still deep in conversation with Potter. They were both sitting on the carpet, leaning on the sofa where Ron, already drunk, was snoring lightly. One of Draco’s hands was supporting his head; the other was on Potter’s leg. It was nothing conscious, Johnny knew - he knew Draco well enough to know his seduction moves, and this wasn’t one of them.

Somehow, it just made it worse.

Something of that train of thought must have shown on his face. Hermione’s smile froze slightly, and she looked at him curiously, then through the open door, until her gaze fell on Draco on Potter. Her lips looked thinner all of a sudden.

“Who’s up for some more of Madam Rosmerta’s mead?”

Johnny jumped; he had not expected her to speak so loudly, not when most of the room was half asleep.

“Hermione, you’re the most wonderful person on the planet,” Potter said in response. Both he and Draco were still sitting on the floor, but for some reason the distance between them looked bigger now. Draco’s hand was definitely not anywhere near Potter anymore. Johnny felt a rush of gratitude towards Hermione, and went back to the room to join the rest.

He sat next to Draco, embracing him slightly. To his relief, Draco didn’t try to get away from the embrace, but put his own hand on Johnny’s shoulder. Hermione, in the meantime, was delivering chocolates and glasses of the mead - which really was the best thing Johnny had ever tasted - rich and thick and sweet, with a touch of nutmeg.

Once she was sure everyone had a glass, she put the near empty bottle on the table and told Draco pleasantly but firmly, “Budge up, will you?” She then sat right between him and Potter.

“Where have you been, Harry?” she asked Potter quietly.

“Here and there,” he said, a generic response that wasn’t an answer at all.

“We were worried about you.”

“I know,” he said softly. “I’m sorry.”

“You could have sent an owl, a message... something.”

He shook his head and took a long sip of the mead. “I couldn’t, Hermione. I’m sorry.”

“Why not?” she insisted.

Johnny hazarded a glance to Draco. His eyes were fixed on Potter, drinking in every word. His face was slightly flushed, and Johnny had a strong suspicion it wasn’t because of the alcohol. He turned his eyes to Potter, too.

Potter didn’t answer. Instead, he stared at the fire, playing with his wand.

“No one blamed you for what happened with Yaxley.”

“It was self defence.”

“Exactly,” she said. “You should have realised it then.”

His laughter was soft, but there was a trace of bitterness in it. “I did understand it back then. It wasn’t because I killed Yaxley.”

“So what was it, then?”

He hesitated for a moment. “It was because I had to kill Yaxley.”

Hermione didn’t pursue the topic further. Johnny was left utterly confused, feeling even more like an intruder between his own friends.

  
**-X-**   


They Apparated back home. It irritated Draco a bit, because it required concentration, and his head was full of other things. But they didn’t have much choice - they had left Johnny’s car parked when they went.

The familiar compression feeling engulfed him. He managed to dredge up enough concentration to show up back in their living room, but it had taken more time than usual.

“Uh, Draco?” Johnny said a moment after they appeared again.

“Yeah,” Draco said, hoping he wouldn’t talk too much about whatever it was. Probably a recap of the party. Draco didn’t need a recap of the party. He needed some time to think.

“Your finger’s bleeding.”

“What?” Draco threw a look at his hand. Johnny was right - a fingernail was missing, and he was bleeding from the tip of his finger. He had managed to splinch himself while Apparating. He swore loudly.

“You want something for it? I think we have some plasters in the bathroom...”

“No, I’ll fix this,” he said and pulled out his wand. So stupid. He’d been so distracted that he managed to splinch himself. Honestly. He swore again, then aimed the wand and said the incantation. “See, much easier. Next time you sprain your ankle, you should let me fix it.”

“No, I think I’ll stick to bandages,” Johnny answered. Muggles and their hang-ups.

All Muggle hang-ups and Apparition injuries were gone from Draco’s head as he went into the shower. Potter was back. He had worried so many times, what things would be like between them if he ever showed up again, even long after he’d given up the hope he’d ever show up at all. Tonight he had his answer, and it warmed his heart. They didn’t go back to the old rivalries. They didn’t go back to the old hatred. No, it looked a lot more like those last few weeks before he disappeared - something that could even pass as friendship. Draco was so childish back then, so self-absorbed. He didn’t know what friendship looked like, what proper relationships with people looked like.

Spending all that time with Ron and Hermione changed all that. He almost laughed in the shower - there was no reason to go back to the old hatred, of course there wasn’t. As it turned out, now Potter’s friends were Draco’s friends, too. More than that - Draco knew them much better these days than Potter did.

That was an odd turn of events, wasn’t it, he mused as he soaped himself under the water. Potter had missed eight whole years, eight years in which his old school friends grew and changed and Draco was there for that bit, he knew them through the changes and changed with them. It was Potter who was the stranger now.

Before he even realised it he was all clean. He jumped out of the shower full of energy, as if it weren’t 1 a.m. and he wasn’t half drunk. Still drying his hair, he stepped back to the bedroom.

Johnny was still standing there, his arms crossed, just as he had been when Draco walked into the shower. “I was in the middle of the sentence,” he said, and Draco could detect a trace of annoyance in his voice.

“Were you? Sorry, I was a bit distracted.”

“Yes,” Johnny’s nostrils flared. “I’ve noticed.”

Draco froze. The trace of annoyance wasn’t a trace at all. It was pronounced and present. And it wasn’t quite annoyance - more like rage. Johnny was standing there, shaking with anger.

What on earth did he do? “Sorry,” he mumbled. “I didn’t mean to ignore you, I was just - “

“Distracted, yes.”

“Look, I’m tired, I’ve had way too much to drink, and I need to wake up early for work tomorrow. Whatever it is, it can wait.” He crawled into the warm blankets, not checking to see if Johnny followed him.

It didn’t take the wizarding world a long time to realise Potter was back. Someone must have seen him in Diagon Alley, or the Ministry, or Hogsmeade - or, really, in any other place where wizards were. Harry Potter was instantly recognisable - barring Polyjuice Potion or his invisibility cloak, of course. In the old days, it would have annoyed Draco. Now, however, he read the _Prophet_ avidly every morning, listened intently to the WWN, and paid his full attention to the gossip at the office. Potter was everywhere; it seemed the entire wizarding world was just as interested as Draco was in where he had been, what he had done, and what he was going to do now. Draco ,however, was in a better position than most, seeing as how unlike the rest of the wizarding world, he was friends with Potter. Or, at least, friends with his friends.

Needless to say, he had waited that entire week with mounting anticipation to Hermione’s next dinner, and she didn’t disappoint - the next weekend was another such dinner, and Draco was sure Potter would be there too.

They came in Johnny’s car this time. Johnny had suggested it, and Draco leapt on the offer. He didn’t want to take the risk of splinching again, and throughout the entire week he had been just as distracted as during that first evening. He knew why, of course - Potter would be there again.

At Ron and Hermione’s, Johnny seemed to find Hermione immediately and then proceeded to talk to her throughout the entire evening. Draco didn’t much care - it gave him a better chance to speak with Potter. It wasn’t like they talked about anything important, of course - mainly jokes, ridiculous stories, hearing from Neville about Hogwarts or the regular Ministry round-up, as so many of them there were employed by the Ministry. He didn’t mind. He’d have a chance to tell Potter everything he wanted to say later on. Right now, it was enough just to talk about the silly things, as long as they were talking.

He grew irritated when Hermione insisted on sitting between them, or when Ron started reminiscing with Harry about anything and everything from their Hogwarts days. He couldn’t say anything - what would he say, really? Please stop talking about how your friendship is much stronger than anything I’d ever have with Potter? Please stop talking about all those incidents from the time I was busy hating your guts?

He nipped to the loo for what he thought was a moment, some point late in the evening. He was surprised to discover, when he got back, that Potter and Hermione were both missing. They must be in the kitchen, he thought, and started to walk towards it. He froze when he heard his name.

“Draco’s got a good thing going on with Johnny,” said Hermione.

“Mmhm,” said her unseen interlocutor, which was probably Potter.

“They really are good together, Harry. Draco’s changed - you can’t imagine how much he’s changed, just in these four years. Don’t ruin it.”

“Ruin it?”

“Don’t pretend you haven’t noticed, Harry. You know if you say the word he’ll come running. He’ll do it with sarcasm and sneering to satisfy his _Malfoy_ pride -” Draco didn’t like the sneering way she said ‘Malfoy’ - “but he’ll throw it all away just the same on the off chance he’d get to be with you.”

The resentment was rising in Draco. Who was she to talk about him like that?!

“You were never a selfish man, Harry,” Hermione continued. “Don’t start now.”

“You don’t understand,” Potter said quietly.

“What?” came Hermione’s answer. “That you’re just back for a week and already everyone’s going on the same way as they did before?”

“I’m not this great saviour they all make me up to be,” Potter said, the resentment in his voice almost matching the one in Draco’s heart. “I couldn’t take it then, and I don’t think I can take it now, and I hoped all this time would be enough to make them forget but they just won’t stop.”

“And you want this relationship because you feel like he’s the one who looks at you and sees only you?”

Draco’s smile, that had become wide with that last sentence, was erased completely from his face when he heard the next one.

“... You don’t really know Draco at all, do you,” Hermione stated softly.

He slammed the door open, knowing his face was flushed and angry but for once he didn’t care. Both Hermione and Potter jumped - it was almost like they had forgotten there were other people in the house.

In the back of his mind, Draco was pleased that the look on Potter’s face when he had walked in was also irritated. Hermione was back to her know-it-all ways, but she didn’t know all about _him_ , he thought, full of resentment. She didn’t know all about Potter, either, and she didn’t know all about the two of them together.

“Hi, Draco,” she said, her voice slightly higher than usual.

“Hi,” he said coldly. He walked towards the tap, as if to take a drink of water, but made sure to brush Potter’s neck with his fingers on his way. He could feel Potter shifting slightly in his seat, reacting just a little bit to his touch. Smirking to himself, he stretched over to find a glass, bent over to reach the tap, drank noisily, and left the room again. He knew Potter was watching his every move.

“It’s getting late, Draco,” Johnny’s voice greeted him when he got back into the living room. “Time we were off?”

“I don’t know, I’m still enjoying the party,” Draco said untruthfully. A quick glance around the room only served to confirm it as a lie - Ron was snoring on the sofa again. Neville was nodding off on Luna’s shoulder. Ginny and Dean were already preparing to leave.

Johnny was unimpressed with the transparent excuse. “It’s 1:30. I’m knackered. And I need to wake up in 5 hours.”

“Then go home, I’ll get there later.”

Johnny got up so quickly that he nearly turned the chair over. “Fine,” he said and picked up his car keys so fast that if Draco hadn’t known better, he’d have thought he Summoned them.

Johnny’s leaving signalled the death of the party. Five minutes later, Draco stepped out of the door mumbling his own goodbyes, but mostly, he was trying to avoid Hermione’s glare as she stood at the doorframe, her arms crossed and her eyes pinned to him in undisguised anger.

Draco’s discomfort was soon forgotten - he had realised that Potter was walking down the street next to him.

“You know, Potter, I still feel like drinking,” he said.

“I think I got a bottle of firewhiskey at home,” Potter said with a small smile.

“ _Excellent_.”

  
**-X-**   


This time, it was Draco who stayed awake. He didn’t think Potter would run off, not again, but still, he felt more comfortable staying up, watching the sleeping man beside him. Perhaps to convince himself it was real.

It _was_ real. The messy hair was unmistakably Potter’s, as was the face underneath it. Draco looked at it in the soft light that entered the room from the corridor - the slightly sharp chin, the slightly-too-large nose, the eyes - now closed, green underneath the eyelids. And of course, the scar on the forehead, shaped like a lightning bolt.

Out of a whim, he moved his hand; his finger hovered slightly above the scar, then went back to caress the cheek. Potter shuddered from his touch. His shoulders tensed, his face darkened, and he pulled himself tighter, as if trying to become smaller. Draco immediately sent back his hand, but it took long minutes before Potter relaxed again, before peace returned to his sleep.

Draco watched him a little longer, studying him intently. Now he could see that Potter wasn’t really relaxed, didn’t seem to have a truly peaceful sleep. Even after Draco’s fleeting touch was forgotten, whatever had haunted Potter’s sleep was still present. He could see it in his face - not completely relaxed; in his back muscles - slightly contracted still; in the white of his knuckles. Potter during night was so different from daylight-Potter. When he was awake, he looked and acted completely in control. Harry Potter, who had defeated Dark Lords and dragons and Dementors and who knew what else, who nothing could touch. When he was asleep, Draco had rather thought he seemed much less self-assured.

He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but it broke his heart, and not out of pity for Potter.

He must have fallen asleep eventually, because he woke up with a start when Potter shook him roughly. “Oi! Malfoy!”

“Wha -” Draco mumbled. It didn’t feel like he had slept more than a minute or two. He blinked and opened his eyes, trying to fight the strong light coming in from the window. Potter had already taken a shower, and was now drying his hair with an oddly fluffy towel.

“I think you need to go to work soon,” he said, then threw his wet towel half on the bed, half on Draco himself. “Fetch me my trousers, will you?”

Draco, who did not appreciate being hit by the towel, threw it back at Potter. He laughed and dodged it, and then went closer to Draco again to take his trousers himself.

“What time is it?” Draco asked.

“Eight.”

“What?” Draco jumped out of the bed, fully awake. “How d’you mean eight, I need to be at work in fifteen minutes!”

Potter gave him an amused smile. “Next time, look less cute when you’re sleeping. C’mon, I need to get out too.”

His entire morning had gone in an unproductive haze of thinking about the night before. With the exception of his supervisor telling him off for not arriving in the proper robes, it was the perfect morning. But then came lunch time, and just before he’d had the chance to ask some of his colleagues whether they felt like going out somewhere, Hermione showed up at his desk.

“Lunch?” she asked brightly, so brightly that he was already suspicious of her intentions. But lunch was lunch, and she was one of his best friends, and he couldn’t quite refuse, not on the hunch that this would not end well.

Surprisingly, it took fifteen whole minutes of friendly chit-chat before anything uncomfortable was said.

“By the way,” she said quietly, “Johnny called me this morning. He wanted to know where you were.”

Draco swallowed. “What did you say?” he said, his voice much calmer than he felt.

“I said you fell asleep at our place.”

A rush of gratitude hit him, mixed with surprise. “Thanks, Hermione! You’re a life saver, you’re - ” he said.

“Don’t do it again. I won’t cover for you a second time.”

He didn’t respond to that - there was nothing to say, really.

“I assume,” she continued after a moment’s silence, “you went over to Harry’s?”

“Yeah. We still felt like drinking, and he said he had some firewhiskey.” Draco looked at his food. They never even made it to opening the bottle, but he’d be damned if he admitted it to her.

She didn’t ask, though. Next time he checked, she was looking at him, a strange expression on her face.

“What?” he demanded.

“Do you remember what my first impression of Johnny was?”

“You kinda liked him, didn’t you?”

“Actually, I didn’t quite understand what he saw in you,” she said honestly. “I thought he was bound to dump you once he got to know you better.”

“Thanks. You’re making me feel loads better.”

“Good, because you need to listen to this. ‘Cause Johnny’s the best thing that’s ever happened to you - he changed you, Draco, and he changed you for the better. And in the last week or so, you’ve been...”

“What? I’ve been what, exactly?”

“More like you used to be.”

He didn’t answer. He wanted to shout at her and tell her she was wrong and being ridiculous and why was she ruining this for him, but he couldn’t. He had to admit that he didn’t even think about Johnny before she mentioned his name. And then he thought of Harry’s words to Hermione the night before.

“You’re wrong,” he said. “This isn’t me being selfish and self-centred and spoilt. Harry needs - someone,” he almost said ‘me’, but decided not to. Even he could tell that it wouldn’t make his point about not being selfish any stronger. “Aren’t you his friend? Much more than my friend, that’s what you guys keep on reminding me, so can’t you see it?”

She got up. “Whatever Harry needs, you can’t give him.” And then, perhaps feeling she was too harsh, her voice softened somewhat. “I am your friend, Draco. So take it as a friendly advice. You need Johnny a lot more than you need Harry. Let Harry go. He’s not going to be yours, no matter what happens. Not the way you want, anyway.”

Draco watched her go in silence.

  
**-X-**   


Draco worked late that day. He didn’t really want to go back home. _Coward_ , he told himself as he realised he had been staring at the last, finished report for fifteen minutes, anything not to hand it in and go home. Maybe Hermione was right. Maybe he was going back to the way he used to be. To being a coward.

With a flick of his wand, he handed in the report and stepped outside of the office. Time to go.

When he got home, the house was dark. For a moment, Draco’s heart was full of fear - had Johnny left? But the house had the unmistakable scent of cooking hanging around the air. Draco went to the kitchen, hopeful for some dinner, but the kitchen was dark as well. Any dinner was already had; Johnny’s dirty dishes and empty pasta pot were in the sink, unwashed. Can’t he wash his dishes, Draco thought angrily automatically, and then caught himself. This was not really the moment to think that. At least Johnny hadn’t left.

He found him in the bedroom, reading a book. Draco recognised it from the colourful cover - it was by a Muggle who was fond of writing his idea of wizards. Draco never saw the point.

“Hi,” he said, standing at the doorway.

Johnny didn’t raise his eyes from the book.

Draco took a deep breath, then walked to the bed and sat, tentatively, on the edge. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

“You weren’t here when I woke up,” Johnny said, his eyes still fixed on the book.

“I know.”

“I called Hermione. She said you fell asleep there in the end.”

“Yeah.”

“Was she lying?”

It was a no-brainer, really. “Yeah.”

Johnny took his eyes off the book at last. “Thanks,” he said.

“For what?”

“For being honest. I knew she was lying. It was a stupid lie.”

Draco smiled. “She’s got this crazy idea, Hermione. She thinks I deserve another chance with you.”

Johnny didn’t smile back. Draco’s eyes wandered to the cover of the book, in which an oddly-shaped wizard in a ridiculous hat was brandishing something that didn’t really look like a wand at a creature that looked even less like a dragon.

“What about Harry Potter?” Johnny asked, still calm. Draco was finding the Muggle version of dragons very interesting indeed. “I know that I knew what I was getting into. I can live with being second best, Draco, and let’s admit it, I don’t have much choice, not next to Harry Bloody Potter. But I can’t do - this.”

“I know,” he said quietly.

“I thought you and I were -” Johnny swallowed. “I’m sorry, but I have no interest in being with you just to make you respectable enough for him.”

“Is that what you think?” Draco stared at him - he shouldn’t be surprised, of course, he knew. He had never given Johnny a reason to think otherwise.

“Look, Johnny,” Draco now sat at the edge of the bed. “You were never supposed to be my road to salvation. _He_ was. I had this crazy dream that we could save each other.”

“And now?”

“I don’t want to live in dreams anymore.”

Johnny didn’t answer.

Draco took a deep breath. “Malfoys don’t apologise. And we don’t beg,” he said, and then looked up to Johnny and licked his lip nervously. “Johnny - please. I’m sorry.”

Johnny nodded for a moment, then picked up the book again.

“Why do you read about these... wizards?” Draco had to ask.

“They’re a lot like your lot,” Johnny allowed himself a smile. “Completely mental.”

Draco laughed. “Yeah, I guess we are. Budge up, it’s cold in here,” he said and crawled under the blankets. He couldn’t find his own book, so he ended up reading over Johnny’s shoulder. The subject of Harry Potter didn’t come up again between them.

Draco kept on reading about Potter in the _Prophet_ in the next couple of weeks - the paper was full of rumours and speculations about what Potter would do next, whether he would return to the Auror office, whether he should be given the position of Minister of Magic. Other rumours were printed about his whereabouts in the past eight years: Rita Skeeter claimed that he was the reason that American dark wizard disappeared; ‘a Ministry insider’ heavily hinted that the recent disturbances with the goblins had been won thanks to him; on the WWN, a talk-show host talked about the dragon colony that went wild in Romania. On and on and on it went, and in the end, Draco didn’t pay much attention to those rumours. Some of them he knew to be false. The others, he discovered he didn’t really want to know.

He’d seen Potter a couple of times more, mainly at Hermione’s dinners. By the end of the second dinner, it was Johnny, not Draco, who could be found deep in conversation with Harry - about Muggle sports of all things. Wherever he had been all that time, apparently it was somewhere where people had watched a lot of football. Draco wasn’t quite sure what football was.

For the third dinner, however, Potter didn’t show up. By the fourth, Neville had told them that he’d gone round Potter’s house, only to find Grimmauld Place dark and empty.

None of them said anything. Draco wasn’t really surprised, and he had the inkling neither was Hermione. Ron’s mood was foul for a bit, but much less than Draco expected. Draco’s main surprise was Johnny - he seemed as genuinely sad with Potter’s absence as the rest of them. Blessed Potter, Draco thought with affection, mixed with just the slightest hint of bitterness. Can’t even get someone’s boyfriend to cheat on them without all involved still liking him afterwards.

Hermione was still subdued when she took out a bottle of Madam Rosmerta’s oak matured mead. For a moment, Draco thought she was going to offer a toast as she distributed the glasses between them all, but in the end, she stayed silent.

It was Ron who spoke first. “Hey, remember when I almost got poisoned by mead and Harry saved me with that bezoar?” he asked.

“How can I forget?” Hermione laughed. “That was when you split up with _Lav-Lav_.”

“Nah, that happened later,” Ron corrected her. “I think that was Harry’s _Felix Felicis_ , to be honest. He was going nuts with her -”

“ - Not as much as you were -”

“- Just so you know -”

Ron and Hermione went on bickering for a while on the subject. After a while, they stopped, and Neville started telling a different story about Harry Potter, aided by Ginny Weasley, and the room erupted into laughter again. Draco Malfoy sat there on the sofa, one arm holding his drink, the other wrapped around Johnny, and listened.


End file.
